House of Shadows
by ladyofdarkstar
Summary: Three Imperial officers, one rebel, Lord Vader, and the crew of the ISD Peremptory find themselves embroiled in a conspiracy centered around a certain lake house on Naboo and the family secrets contained therein. Chapter Eleven: Clues are found at the old Lars farmstead, and an Imperial officer becomes an unlikely savior of a rebel agent. Reviews are love!
1. Chapter 1 - The Unexpected Captive

A/N: This story takes place about a year and a half before ROTJ. I often wondered how the crews of the Imperial Fleet reacted to Darth Vader's hunt for Luke Skywalker... and what would happen if that hunt led the Dark Lord to answers he didn't know he needed. As with all good stories, that search reaches in and grabs hold of the lives of several others along the way. I hope you enjoy!

Many thanks to **m4x70r** for letting me play with the OC Nathon Tydon from the story "To No Avail." It's a great story, and I highly recommend it. :)

* * *

It all came down to a single name.

Commander Luthar Friel, first officer of the Imperial I-class Star Destroyer _Peremptory_, stared down at the information scrolling across the data pad without really seeing it. The mission to intercept a rebel convoy smuggling stolen Merr-Sonn weaponry out of the Bormea sector had been a success. Eighty-nine percent of the cargo had been reclaimed, the lost amounts being consumed during the firefight on the last _mandal _class corvette. According to the recent reports, no casualties were suffered on the Imperial side—only some serious and minor injuries that were being treated in medbay—and a minimal loss of life among the rebel forces. The rebel survivors were currently filling the detention levels of the ship, awaiting interrogation.

Lieutenant Colonel Medeiros and his stormtrooper unit were to be commended for that. All in all, a pleasing days' worth of activity.

Only that one name on the list of prisoners held his attention, branded itself into his thoughts. Why, of all people, did it have to be her? For once in her infuriating life, why couldn't she have done as he and her brother had asked?

And why of all the rebel transports to be captured, did she have to be on the one the _Peremptory_ took on behalf of Lord Vader?

His lips compressed in a thin line as he rode the lift down to the detention levels, his duties warring with the memories of a little girl clutching her dolly, staring with wide eyes as her brother and his best friend strode across the parade grounds of the Imperial Academy to graduate with honors. Their uniforms had been perfectly pressed, their posture as they marched proudly across the field perfectly executed. New boots—officer's boots—shining with polish in the afternoon Carida sunlight.

And after the ceremony, the newly minted Ensign Nathon Tydon had scooped up his baby sister in both arms, swinging her about. The high pure laughter of a child mingled with the woops of congratulation and laughter from the families and friends of the graduates of Friel's glass. Friel, himself, had removed his uniform cap and placed it over the girl's head, smiling widely as the thing nearly fell down to her shoulders. She'd flung her tiny little arms around his neck, lunging into a tight hug with what she called her "second brother."

It had been a good memory, Friel reflected, the small smile fading from his lips as the lift doors opened. It had been one that kept him going during difficult assignments. Her letters to him when she was still young, before adolescence had gripped her and she'd discovered there were better uses for boys than throwing rocks at them or calling them smelly, had often reminded him that there was a reason he was in the Imperial Navy. That there was someone waiting for him to come home, waiting for him to protect her and all that she held dear.

That someone had to stand up for her and her freedoms.

It took forever for that cell door to rise, and yet it felt like it happened all too fast.

The first thing he saw was dirty reddish-blonde hair, matted with the dark brown of dried blood. The second was the too thin frame of a woman ignoring proper nutritional habits. That was all wrapped in a black baggy jumpsuit of a spacer. Her hands were bound, tethered to the wall with a thin but unbreakable durasteel cable. But then that head lifted, the curtain of those matted curls parting to reveal a face that was bruised but still distinguishable. His heart sank, the tiny tremulous hope that this was all a coincidence, that someone else had her same name and appearance, melted beneath unrelenting reality.

There was no mistaking those eyes, those mismatched eyes. One blue. One green.

Renate Camlyn Tydon.

His best friend's little sister.

His adopted little sister.

"Renet," he whispered, the nickname barely audible. His eyes filling with the scream he could not give vent, his hands gripped behind his back tightly to keep them from grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her until her head snapped clean off her shoulders.

_WHY! _

The word screamed in the silence between them.

Why? Why the rebellion? There were so many other avenues within the Empire she could have taken to help the war effort, if fighting was what she wanted to do. She was the daughter of a Regional governor, from a good Core world family. She could have done anything, married anyone, become a governor for star's sake! A million trillion other options to voice her upset if she felt something was wrong with the galaxy in which they lived.

Why the rebellion? Stars, why?!

Those eyes focused on his, and the look in them stabbed him worse than any weapon. Hatred. Pure unadulterated hatred boiled in those jeweled depths. Loathing made into tangible flesh. And all directed at him. No, not completely at him, his rational mind whispered, finally catching up to the emotional shocks to his heart. She was glaring at his uniform, at his rank bar. Hating it and his choice to don it, to wear it proudly.

And somewhere in those angry eyes, there was fear. There was still that little girl he thought on as his only sister. That alone snapped him back into focus. He reached a hand out beside him, felt his stormtrooper escort drop a data pad into is palm.

"Renet Camlyn," he said formally, dispassionately, reading her rebel alias from the data pad in his hand. "Do you understand why you have been detained?"

She said nothing.

He lifted an eyebrow, making a show of reading the displayed data before handing the pad back to the trooper. "Your record is impeccable, which makes me wonder why you have chosen to take up with known terrorists, Miss Camlyn."

"Don't you call me that, Imperial," She spat at him. "You know my first name. You know _me_."

_Do I?_ He thought with a momentary pang. _I thought I did, Renet. I really thought I did. But it appears that I never did. And that hurts the most._

"I do not know you at all," he continued in that flat tone, his posture as straight as it had been on the day of his graduation. On the day he'd held that little laughing girl… "I knew a girl that bore your name, Miss Camlyn. You are not that same person. Now please answer the question. It will not be repeated again. Do you understand why you have been detained?"

"Yes," she spat again.

"So you admit involvement with the terrorists known as the Rebel Movement." It was not a question.

"Yes."

"How old are you, Miss Camlyn?"

"You already know that, Imperial."

Friel lifted a hand, signaling the trooper to stop before he began moving. Normally a sharp smack to the face with a gauntleted hand would have been in order, enough to remind the prisoner in question to be mindful of the rank that stood before her. To remind her that cooperation was in her best interest, or things would get much, much worse.

He had to avoid that as much as possible. For her, for the man that was a brother to him, and for himself.

"Answer the question, Miss Camlyn. The next time I will not stop this officer from doing his duty."

He watched her fear intensify by degrees, watched her eyes take in the armor, the blaster held ready, and the mask that looked like a stretched skull. Finally, her eyes lowered, her shoulders starting to lose their defiant stance. Inwardly, he sighed heavily as he began to put the pieces together. He'd seen this sort of thing before with the rebels his ship had captured. She'd joined the rebellion for the silly romantic notion of it most likely. She had really believed it would all be like those holo-dramas, all romance and adventure. Did she really think she could slip free of the consequences for her actions, or that rebellions would be won without a drop of blood shed?

Did she even consider her own could and would be spilled far before anything she did made a difference?

"I'm seventeen," she said at last, fire still in that tone, but muted beneath shaking fear.

"Seventeen," he echoed. "A shame. A true shame that you threw away your life so soon. Tell me where your ship was heading."

"I don't know."

"Miss Camlyn—"

"I don't know," she exclaimed, exasperated. "I'm telling the truth. I don't know where we were going or what we were carrying. Only that we had to get there. I wasn't told anything else."

"Why did you join with the rebels?"

"I don't really see—"

This time he didn't stop the trooper from striding forward and grabbing a fist full of her hair, yanking her head up painfully. She yelped, tears pulling free of those eyes, the orbs widening as that hand pulled upward still, forcing her to first sit up straight, and then to sit painfully erect, and then to nearly rise up on her knees on that metal shelf she sat upon. The action produced the usual result, the pain smothering the fires in her eyes and leaving room for fear to consume the last of her resistance.

Friel stepped forward, a look of hard disapproval on his features. A look that had made many a junior officer step three times as fast to avoid him.

Renet stared at him as if she didn't know him. As if he was the personification of every imagined monster under her bed when she was a child.

But she wasn't a child anymore, he had to remind himself. She was nearly an adult, close enough in age to be tried as one for her crimes. And if he wanted to help her at all, he couldn't back down. He had to be that monster, and he had to scare the life out of her.

"You are not in a position to decide what is relevant here, Miss Camlyn. You are a prisoner, a confessed terrorist against our government, and under arrest per the orders of Lord Vader, himself. If you wish to help yourself at all, you will answer each and every one of my questions honestly, precisely, and with alacrity. Do I make myself clear?"

Normally she would have nodded. Instead, she swallowed hard, mouth opening as if to respond and then thinking better of it when glancing at the trooper still hurting her.

"Good. We begin again. Why did you join the rebellion?"

"Be-because I thought they were doing good things."

He lifted an eyebrow. "Good things? You call the murder of countless officers and civilians a good thing?"

"I meant about the slavery and the discrimination," she managed out between quiet whimpers. "It's wrong and you know it."

He believed the same, disliked slavery in any form. But he was at least smart enough to know there were better ways in which to go about a social reform than outright rebellion!

"What I believe is not the topic at hand, Miss Camlyn. What is, is the fact that you thought the murder of Imperial citizens and officers was the best way to go about ending such things. More to the point, you used this as an excuse to commit several major crimes."

"But I never killed anyone! I couldn't! I'm not like that!"

"Irrelevant," he snapped back harshly. "You were found in the company of men and women suspected of those crimes. The charge is guilt by association even if you are innocent of the acts, themselves. You will be judged alongside your compatriots and share in their punishments for breaking the law."

He let that sink in for a minute, and knew he'd truly scared the life out of her when she started to cry. To truly cry like the child she was. For she was a child in his eyes, would always be a child. However the Empire did not share his view, and there were too few months separating seventeen from the legal age of majority. She'd be tried as an adult.

There was nothing he could do about it. And that knowledge hurt the most.

"But no one was supposed to get hurt!" she sobbed, the tears flowing freely down her bruised cheeks. "It wasn't supposed to end like this. It was supposed to be peaceful."

He wanted to shake his head, to sigh aloud in sorrow and resignation. The sigh that left his lips instead was soft and full of disgust. "You made a very bad decision, Miss Camlyn. And I am truly sorry. Lieutenant, release her," he said to the trooper, turning on his heel to leave the room. And forced out the words that stuck so painfully in his throat. "Per standing orders from the Admiralty regarding rebels, prepare the prisoner for level one interrogation."

He didn't need to see her to know her eyes widened further, to watch her leap from the shelf and nearly rip her shoulder from its socket when the durasteel cord reached its length and snapped her back against the wall.

"NO! DON'T DO THIS!" She begged. "PLEASE, LUTHAR, I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING! OH STARS, PLEASE! PLE—"

The door closed, cutting off the pleas, the crying. Though Friel knew he would hear them long after they were finished. Would see her in this state every time he closed his eyes for a long, long time to come. _Renet, I am so sorry. I wish there was more that I could do. However you belong to Lord Vader now, and you will answer for your stupid, idealistic decision._

And he? He would ultimately have to answer to his best friend now, to go and tell Commander Nathon Tydon, First Officer of the ISD _Dark Star, _that the baby sister he thought was safe on their homeworld was about to undergo interrogation. And that Friel, himself, had ordered it.

It was no longer a pleasing day.

Friel barely heard the man that stepped over to him as he approached the detention cell monitoring stations. He stopped, turned eyes that were heavy with regret masked behind pure cold anger on the man. So much so that the other took an involuntary step backwards.

"Sir," the yet unknown officer began, licking his lips as if questioning the wisdom of approaching the XO at this time. "A word, sir. I know you are busy, sir. But I think this will interest you."

Friel took a deep breath, stifling the urge to shove the other man aside and get on with his day. "I should hope so, officer…"

"Gant, sir. Avery Gant, Lieutenant Commander."

"Very well, Lieutenant Commander Gant, you may have your word."

Gant saluted, turned, and lead Friel down the hall to a more private corner. "Sir, I understand the prisoner you just interrogated is Renate Tydon, the sister of Commander Tydon, the First officer of the _Dark Star_."

Friel felt his teeth grind together. So much for trying to protect Nathon and his good name from this mess. "You are correct," he growled. "I'm waiting to see how a reiteration of known facts is urgent enough to compel my time."

Gant paled slightly. "Sir, I was in charge of monitoring your interrogation of Miss Ty—I mean MissCamlyn. I think… Sir, it is my professional opinion that Miss Camlyn was not in her right mind. She exhibits all the classic symptoms of brainwashing, sir. She is malnourished, unable to articulate properly her reasons for being a member of this rebel ship's crew, nor her reasons for joining with the rebels in the first place."

A tiny bubble of hope forced its way through the gloom around his heart. If Gant was correct… "You do realize that may not be enough," he said, choosing his words carefully. "She is the prisoner of Lord Vader, as are all the rebels captured this day. Do you believe your evidence of her mental state will hold up under such scrutiny?"

To his credit, Gant met his gaze evenly. "Not just on my word, sir. If you believe the same, I know it will be enough. There is president in the data bases for this kind of thing. Most prisoners found to be coerced into wrong actions are sent instead to medical facilities for deprograming. Most are eventually released back to their lives with a strong warning not to misbehave again. Out of those released, there has been a one hundred percent success rate with reintegration into society."

Friel felt his mouth twist unconsciously. He'd heard of these medical facilities before, and most patients sent in emerged as less than themselves. While it was true that all the bad aspects of their personalities that lead them to their unfortunate decisions were removed, it was normally at the cost of the majority of the person's very identity. What emerged was fully programmed to love and adore the Empire, to do anything to ensure its continued existence.

Those facilities produced fanatics. They did not cure defects.

But Renet was from a wealthy, respected Core family. And if her father agreed to a house arrest for her and private doctors to tend her mind… It could work. It could really and truly work.

She could be saved.

"Why?" Friel asked at last. "Why are you going to this amount of research and work for this prisoner in particular?"

"I know Commander Tydon personally, sir. He was a mentor of sorts for me on my first assignment. I owe him."

"That has to be a strong debt if you are willing to go out on a limb with Lord Vader, Gant. I want to make certain you know what you are doing."

"Yes, sir, it is, and yes, sir, I know what I am doing."

"Then you have my approval. If prisoner Camlyn answers truthfully and with relative ease under the level one interrogation, you have my recommendation for a rehabilitation plan for her. Submit your findings to me formally and I will handle the rest."

"Yes, sir."

Friel turned and walked towards the lift, his mind turning over the possibilities one by one. If Lord Vader disagreed with their findings, he and Gant may very well find themselves next to Renet in a cell. But this was a chance, a real chance. And for the memory of the laughter of a little girl that was like a sister to him, he would take that chance.


	2. Chapter 2 - An Interrogation

A/N: Thank you to **Thread**,** m4x70r, Shadir**, and **Admiral M **for the wonderful reviews! And thanks to all that have favorited or followed this story. Also, a special thanks to **m4x70r** for letting me write about the OC Nathon Tydon.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OCs. Please do not sue. This is purely for fun.

* * *

Lieutenant Commander Avery Gant flicked through the images on his screen. There were eight prisoners under his care, all rebels taken in that last engagement with the _mandal _class Corvette full of stolen weaponry. Thus far two of the eight had broken with just the threat of interrogation, Renate Tydon—no, _Renet Camlyn_, he corrected himself—being one of them. The other six had given what he was coming to understand as the usual false bravado of men and women thinking they faced execution.

They were right on that point. Lord Vader wanted all the prisoners wrung dry of any and all information they carried, most especially any information dealing with a rebel called Skywalker. What remained of them after they gave up said information was to be disposed of after execution. There were to be no deals made, no bargaining for their lives. The war was escalating, the rebel nuisance becoming a full-fledged threat since the destruction of the Death Star. And the Empire did not barter or show mercy to anything or anyone that threatened its sovereignty.

Gant flicked through the screens again. Each prisoner had a different method for accepting their fates, and each method would give him clues as to how to properly break them. For instance, one sat rocking himself slightly, alluding to a need for comfort. Another glared hard at the cell door, expecting confrontation. One hummed to himself, another tried several times to pull at her bonds like a wild animal. And so on and so forth. Each unconsciously telling him how to break down their resistance, how to get under their skin and inside their heads.

The formula was simple. Replace comfort with discomfort. Take away the chance for confrontation. Blanket the other in utter silence. Render the wild one completely immobile. And then let their imaginations conjure up their worst fears in their panic. Let their own minds do the breaking for him, and then sweep in and ask his questions.

Despite being extremely good at what he did, it was not a duty he took pleasure in. Far from it, actually. Avery hated every moment of duties such as these. But he had a way about him, a natural charm and intuition for lack of a better term that made people want to trust him. People spoke in his presence that normally would have held their tongues. And that made him ideal for this kind of duty.

Normally his duty involved minimal use of drugs or pain application. Normally he dealt with smugglers or pirates or any other sort of dregs the galaxy harbored on its fringes. And normally they would be released after they gave over everything the Imperials requested. But these rebels…

They were in a class all by themselves. And Gant was forced to step up his game.

"Decrease the temperature in Prisoner number Two's cell by twenty degrees. Do it slowly over a three hour period. Do the same for Prisoner number One, except increase the temperature. Increase the illumination in Prisoner number Four's cell by fifty percent, also do it in increments over a three hour period," he said to the Ensign that stepped up behind him. "Prisoner Five seems to display a need for light, so decrease his by fifty percent, again over a three hour period. Apply a faint electronic whining sound in Prisoner number Three's cell, eight percent in volume. By the end of the night I want him begging to make it stop. He won't be able to hum through that."

"And Prisoners Six, Seven, and Eight?" The Ensign asked, making notes in his data pad.

"Do nothing to Six and Eight. Leaving them victims of their own imagination should be enough for now."

"Yes, sir. The injections are prepared for level one interrogation if you believe any of the prisoners are ready for it."

"Good. Yes, I believe one is ready."

"Prisoner Seven, sir?"

"Yes."

"Shall I send in a droid?"

Gant shook his head. "No, that won't be necessary. I'll attend this one myself."

"Very good, sir."

He scooped up the offered injectors from the interrogation droid, trying to align his thoughts for what he was about to do. Part of him still rejected the notion that he was about to interrogate Tydon's sister—his _baby_ sister. Another part reeled against the notion that she was a member of an influential Core family. It shouldn't be possible that someone like her, someone with her pedigree and connections, was under his purview. But it was.

It was this blasted civil war, he told himself firmly. It did crazy things to people.

Her door slid open, and as he had anticipated, she recoiled instantly. He'd ordered nothing done to her since Commander Friel's visit, had watched silently as the impact of the Commander's words settled around her in the silence. She'd wept, prayed. Pleaded silently and aloud. Heartbroken by the fact that her own family would not come to her defense, that she would have to face the consequences of her actions.

Silently he sent off his own prayer that she had spoken truthfully to Commander Friel. But he would know that soon enough.

"No," she whispered, eyes wide and wild. "No no no no no no no please there is some mistake here. I'm… It shouldn't…. It wasn't… _ I_ wasn't…"

Her eyes fell to the silver cylinder of the microinjecter in his hand, and then rose to the flat emotionless look in his eyes. Her words fell away, her body wedging itself into the corner as much as she could, knees drawn up protectively to her chest.

"I am Lieutenant Commander Avery Gant," he said simply. "I am in charge of your interrogation, Prisoner Seven."

She shook her head, disbelief transforming her tear-stained face. "I—"

"You do not have a name any longer," he continued in that same monotone. "You admitted to aiding and abetting known criminals of the Empire. You are hereby stripped of citizenship and name. You are Prisoner Number Seven."

Her hands jerked reflexively against the binders, the durasteel cord trembling with the act. Her mouth opened and closed, working soundlessly against his proclamations. Denial replacing the fear in her heart. He waited for her eyes to close, her head to tip backwards as she processed what he said, as she tried in vain to find a way to reverse her situation. It was a natural reaction almost all prisoners experienced when he said those exact words, and he watched as she went through the motions.

When her eyes closed, he moved.

The injector pierced her shoulder through her dirty jumpsuit, delivered its dosage and retracted from her skin before she registered the initial pain. Her eyes snapped open in time to see him return to his previous position. As if he had never moved at all.

Then her eyes stared at her own shoulder as if it were no longer a part of her. Horrified.

"What—"

"What did I give you?" he cut her off on purpose, his behavior calculated to keep her off balance until the drug took effect. "Something to keep you calm."

"Why?"

He smiled at that, a sharp twisting of his lips. "I think you know why. Do not play stupid with me, Miss Camlyn. Commander Friel informed you of what would happen next."

Too late, she tried to give into the feral instincts to fight. He watched her tense her body, preparing to yank with all her might at the bonds holding her captive. But her shoulders slumped suddenly, and all she managed to do was wave her hands like fluttering petals caught in a breeze. Her legs slipped down from where they had been drawn up, her feet thumping softly on the deck. Her breathing slowed, her head lolling back on her neck as if it weighed too much.

Gant let his smile soften. "There," he said gently, sitting next to her. "Feel better?"

She shook her head, blinking rapidly. "Yes," she said, and brought her hands up clumsily to her lips when she realized what she'd said. "What…"

"You were expecting pain, weren't you?" he continued, crossing one foot over the other and leaning back. Arms folded across his chest. Like a friend hanging out with a friend.

"Yes," she said again, confusion peppering her voice and expression.

"There are many ways to get the information that I want from you, Prisoner Seven. While pain is certainly still an option, I thought we would start with something less unpleasant."

Her hands rose up, captured a lock of her hair and fiddled with it. Like a child. "I want my brother," she sniffed, the tears falling again.

He steeled himself against that sentence, against what he was about to do. It all had to look real—no it all had to _be_ real—if he had any chance of saving her from Lord Vader's judgment. _C'mon, kid. Give me something. Anything. Don't make me hurt you. Don't make me do this…_

"You have no brother. Prisoner Seven has no family."

More tears fell, her fingers faltering in their work. "I don't want to be Prisoner Seven. I—"

"—have no right to be anything," he finished dispassionately for her. "You made your choice to reject all that you had when you sided with the rebels."

"My brother—"

"Can't help you now. You have no brother, Prisoner Seven."

"Please stop calling me that," she sobbed, lowering her head.

"Give me a reason not to," he shrugged a shoulder. "Until then, I see no grounds to stop addressing you as what you are. You are Prisoner Seven of the _Peremptory_. You have no rights here. You are not a citizen of the Empire. And you are facing execution very soon… unless you give me a reason that you are otherwise."

"I—"

He sighed, shaking his head. "Wrong again. You don't get to refer to yourself as an individual anymore. You are Prisoner Seven. You will address yourself as Prisoner Seven."

Her head snapped up, eyes focusing and losing their focus as the drugs battered away at her consciousness. Leaving her wide open to suggestion, stripping her ability to think deeply, removing the concentration necessary to calculate devious responses. Normally this particular drug was combined with another that heightened every nerve ending in the recipient's body to hyperactive levels. So that a single touch or an electric shock of minor voltage could feel like agony.

He'd left that last drug out of the combination out of respect for Commander Tydon. Inwardly, he hoped he didn't have to change his mind.

"I—"

Gant reached into a belt box and pulled out a slender coil of black metal. "Do you see this, Prisoner Seven?"

She opened her mouth, and closed it sharply. Unwilling to do as he said and address herself in the third person, unable to trust herself to speak otherwise. It was progress of sorts.

He reached out and captured her left wrist in his hand. Her attempts to pull away were dulled by the drug, and she whimpered as he tore open the sleeve of her jumpsuit at the shoulder. The fabric pulled away, ripping clean from her arm at his urging. She was so thin, as if the rebels barely had enough supplies to keep them upright nevertheless carry out a war effort. The cold metal coil wrapped around her bicep three times before he could fasten it in place.

"This is a pain inducer, Prisoner Seven. When I think you are lying to me, it will deliver a jolt into your body. So far it is inactive. But I want you to wear it, to feel it on your skin, and to think about it each time you answer my questions or disobey me."

Bound hands tried to rise, to touch the device on her shoulder. He grabbed her wrist a second time, pulling her gently away from the wall until the tether was taunt and she could not reach the inducer. Gant smiled again, let it fill with sympathy as he entwined his fingers with hers. The action held two purposes. The first to keep her under control if she tried to pull away. The second to provide a form of comfort in conjunction with that smile, to instill in her that he really didn't want to hurt her.

That it was okay to answer him. That it was unnecessary to make him hurt her.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I—P-prisoner seven," she stuttered, hanging her head to sob.

His free hand rose, brushed her hair back from her face. "Yes," he said with that same gentle sympathy. "You are Prisoner Seven. You made a very bad decision to join the rebels. But you can correct that. Would you like your name back?"

She nodded, flinching every time his hand passed over her head. Every time he rewarded her like she was an animal, a pet, who had performed a trick. He hated it, what he was doing, loathed it with a fiery passion. She was the sister of a man he respected highly. But if breaking her down saved her life… he'd gladly face the retribution Tydon would throw at him for this. Friel, too.

"Y-yes. Prisoner S-seven wa-wants her name back."

"Okay, then tell me where your ship was heading."

"I already told Luthar—"

The rest of her sentence ended in a yelp of pain, the shock from the inducer swallowing her words.

"It only gets worse, Prisoner Seven," he said, continuing to pet her hair. "I warned you that you are not a person in the eyes of the Empire anymore. You do not refer to yourself that way. And his name is Commander Friel. You will address him as is proper."

More sobbing, more shaking. And a keening wail of utter despair and fear that nearly broke his heart left her lips.

"Answer me, Prisoner Seven. Where was your ship heading?"

"P-pr-prisoner seven told C-c-commander Fr-riel the truth. Prisoner s-seven does not kn-know!"

Another shock. Another wail.

"Are you lying to me, Prisoner Seven?"

Another shock.

"NO!" She shrieked. "Please, you must believe! Prisoner seven does not know! Oh, stars, make it stop!"

"What was the cargo you were carrying?"

"I DON'T KNOW!"

He shocked her again and again and again throughout their time together. Until she was less a person and more gibbering thing willing to repeat anything he said. It was only then that he began to believe her. It was only then that he could save her.

* * *

Two hours later Gant emerged from her cell, a broken and whimpering Renet sprawled on the floor behind him. Shaking with eyes that couldn't quite focus on anything, and not from any drug he had pumped into her system. No, that was due to a combination of pain and psychological torment. He'd whispered quietly into her ears the things that invoked her darkest horrors, said the things he had been trained to say and got the appropriate responses. She'd begged in the end for him to kill her rather than handing her over to Lord Vader.

But before that, she'd begged him for the most bizarre of all requests. She'd begged him to keep her real name out of the system, to hide the fact that she was Nathon Tydon's sister. Begging him to protect her brother from her stupidity. She'd take death in any form, sign her name to whatever statement he put before her if only to protect Tydon.

When he'd asked her why, she'd told him a story. A story that ripped him apart inside, that had him a moment away from granting her request for death.

He was still shaking when the door to her cell slid closed behind him and he took a moment to lean against the bulkhead, pressing his hands to his eyes. He hadn't given her the mercy kill she'd requested, but it had been a near thing. A very near thing. After that story, it had taken all his restraint not to tell her to close her eyes as he placed one hand gently on the back of her head, cupping her chin with his other and twisting sharply. Not out of rage or duty, and not out of disgust that she was a traitor.

Out of mercy.

He'd nearly killed a girl out of mercy of all things. What the _kriff _was this galaxy turning into?

Quiet rage began to burn away the horror of what he'd nearly done. Rage at himself for torturing a child. Rage at the war that forced him to do these things. Rage at her for being so gullible as to fall for rebel propaganda. Rage at the galaxy for ripping itself apart like this. His hands shook anew, and he focused hard on that anger, channeling it into a kind of strength. Gant pushed away from the wall, barking out orders that had stormtroopers and detention staff alike jumping to fulfill them.

A new set of pressure injectors were placed in his hands, a stormtrooper at his back as he crossed into the next cell of the prisoner under his watch. The door revealed a man this time, shivering in the near icy cold of his confinement. But rage burned in those eyes, a rage nearly matching the anger in Gant's own. And when Gant smiled this time, there was no sympathy in it. This man, he knew, was a rebel to his core. This man would not receive pity or compassion.

"I am Lieutenant Commander Avery Gant," he said, cold fire burning in his voice. "I am in charge of your interrogation, Prisoner Two."

He stepped into the room. The door closed behind him. And this time the screams weren't quite muffled by the thick durasteel door.


	3. Chapter 3 - The First Clue

A/N: Thanks to **Shadir** and **m4x70r **for the wonderful reviews! :) Imperial fiction is rarely appreciated and every review helps to let me know I'm doing something right. Also thanks to those who have favorited and followed this story. I hope it doesn't dissapoint.

As always, much thanks to **m4x70r** for allowing me to play with the OC Nathon Tydon from the story "To No Avail." Go read it and enjoy. :D

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OCs. Please do not sue. This is purely for fun.

* * *

Gant knew it was coming, and so didn't flinch or defend himself when Commander Friel's fist connected solidly with his jaw. Once. Twice. Once for Friel, personally. Once for Tydon, since the man himself could not be in attendance to defend his sister. Gant hit the wall hard, the back of his head kissing the steel bulkhead perhaps a bit harder than his XO's fists had his face. The ship seemed to tilt from its steady course, feeling as if the gravity compensators had suddenly stopped working. White spots flashed before his eyes.

It took him a moment to realize he was sitting on deck plating, that he had slid down the wall of Friel's office. Tentatively he opened his mouth, flexing his jaw to make sure it wasn't unhinged. His XO had a mean right hook and a hammer-like left follow-through that was enviable. There was a coppery taste in his mouth, probably the blood from his newly split lip and possibly a torn inner cheek. A quick probe with his tongue concurred with that opinion. Nothing was broken. No teeth were missing, though he was certain a few were now loose.

He was going to have one hell of a headache though. Nothing that an Emdee droid couldn't repair. Still damn annoying, however.

Even if it was deserved.

"Was it enough?" Friel growled through his teeth, turning back to the recording of Renet's interrogation. "Will it do?"

"I believe so," Gant grunted, leveraging himself from his sprawled position. His vision swam and he had to put a hand on the wall to steady himself. "I was brutal with her to the extreme. Lord Vader should be satisfied."

Friel's hand balled into a fist again, and Gant tensed.

"Those first two were free, sir," Gant said bluntly. "I deserved them for what I did to that girl. If you swing at me again, I will defend myself."

Friel leaned forward on his desk, planting those fisted hands hard on the metal, as if not trusting himself. "Understood," he bit out. "Have you verified the information she gave you?"

"Yes, sir. I interrogated three others after Prisoner Seven. They all confirmed, under extreme duress, that she had no part in their plans. She did not know the location of the rebel base, nor what was being transported there. Prisoner Five indicated that she was a new recruit, barely in the rebellion for more than a standard month."

"Good," Friel said, taking in a slow, deep, calming breath and letting it out again. "Good. Did she give you the name of the person that recruited her?"

"Yes, sir. The recruiter was Vrad Dodonna."

He paused, glancing up at Gant. "Jan Dodonna's son?"

"The same, sir."

"I thought he died shortly after the battle of Yavin?"

"Intelligence reported that it was possible that Vrad Dodonna perished in a suicide run against the _Executor_. Enough of his genetic material was found in the wreckage of his fighter to reasonably assume he was killed."

Friel shook his head in barely contained annoyance. "A body was never recovered then. Which means it was also _reasonable_ to assume he'd survived."

Gant fought the urge to shrug a shoulder. Intelligence wasn't known for getting all the facts right all the time. And with the way this rebellion constantly shifted its leadership, twisting around on itself like a serpent chewing its own tail, the officers in the Intelligence Division had more than their work cut out for them sorting through fact and fiction. It wasn't a job he envied in the slightest.

"Why would the presumed dead son of the legendary General Jan Dodonna recruit a seventeen year old girl?"

Gant hesitated a moment. "She admitted to having a… relationship with the man."

That made Friel's mouth twist. "She's a child and he's a man in his thirties. What kind of relationship could they have had? It had to have been something more than that. He had to have had a plan of some sort."

"I agree, sir. If he did, he did not inform her of it. She honestly believed he loved her."

Friel shook his head, sinking heavily into his seat. Of all the things he had to tell Nathon, this was going to be the proverbial sweet sauce on the Corellian soufflé. Not only was his sister a confessed rebel, but also stupid enough to be seduced into it blindly. He wasn't sure if that was more of a heartache or not for his friend, but it was to him. Even if her stupidity would be the only thing that saved her from death.

He brought a hand to his face, rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "Where did this… _seduction_… if you can call this foul act as such, take place?

"Mos Espa, sir."

That earned a lifted eyebrow. "On Tatooine? What in the stars do the rebels want with that place?"

"I wish I knew. It seems the most unlikely of places for a new base for several factors. I have all that detailed in my report."

"Give me the highlights."

Gant stepped over to the table, unconsciously keeping his XO and those fists on the other side of it, and retrieved his data pad. "Tatooine is the birthworld of record for the rebel Luke Skywalker, and by all accounts a place Skywalker despised. It's also the main headquarters of a powerful crime syndicate headed by a Hutt named Jabba. According to Intelligence, Jabba has placed a price on the head of the rebel Han Solo and will do just about anything to have that man taken alive. Not to mention the presence of a garrison or two of our own forces in the major cities. It makes it highly unlikely that they would seek to use that planet as a base of operations."

"Unlikely indeed," Friel echoed. "Even the rebels are not foolish enough to place themselves in a three-way war with us and a Hutt syndicate."

"It could be that they were looking to recruit more of Solo's smuggling associates."

"Possibly," Friel grunted. "Why was Renet on Tatooine, did she tell you that at all?"

Gant wanted to nod, and then thought better of it as the pounding in his head rejected the idea. The headache was already upon him. "Yes, sir. She was part of a diplomatic convoy of young political students passing through the system on a university inspired tour of the Outer Rim. There was an issue with the hyperdrive and they had to set down in Mos Espa for repairs."

Friel's frown deepened. Something in that did not make sense, at least not completely. "It was too damn convenient for a ship of young idealistic diplomats to have hyperdive issues in a system like Tatooine on the edge of Imperial control. Especially when a high level rebel recruiter happened to be in that city specifically. No, something more was happening there. And if we can see it, so can Lord Vader."

"I agree. It's my hope that Rene—Prisoner Seven's connection to this convoy is enough to have her life spared. It's my plan to go back in and have a second session with her. If she can give me something, it will add to the case of her being duped into the rebellion rather than an active participant."

Friel glanced back at the image on his screen of the live feed from Renet's cell. She lay on the floor as she had since Gant had left, fetal and muttering incoherently to herself. He shook his head before he could stop himself. "Can she survive another session?" he asked softly, almost to himself.

Either Gant didn't see the rhetorical question, or chose to ignore his XO's momentary compassion. "If I approach it properly, yes. My recommendation is to give her a night as she is. In the morning, I'll approach her again, this time in friendship with food and water. It's my opinion that she'll regain some of herself by then. The thought of being reduced to…" he cleared his throat, taking a step back at the way Friel's eyes frosted over. "She won't want to return to this state, sir."

"Then do it," Friel growled again, both a reply and a dismissal. He spun his chair back towards his display. "And get that lip looked at first. Make sure you file in your report that I was the one that struck you. I was out of line."

"I will do nothing of the sort, sir," Gant said stiffly. "I fail to see how it is your fault that I let a prisoner get out of line after ending the official interrogation recording. The sloppy work was on me, and I thank you for the unofficial reprimand that set me straight."

Gant was out the door before Friel turned back to regard him. He stared after the younger man, blinking once before letting a hint of a smile touch his lips. Gant's explanation was as good as an excuse for what happened to him as any, with the added bonus of protecting the XO of his ship from the brig. With an attitude and loyalty like that, Gant would distinguish himself in quick order. Friel made a mental note to put Gant forward for a promotion as soon as there was an opening. The man was wasted in detention work.

The smile was short-lived however. With a heavy heart, Friel turned back to his display and forced himself to make the call. Commander Nathon Tydon answered almost immediately. His friend's sleep-tousled appearance had Friel biting back a curse. The _Dark Star_ was currently on the other side of the galaxy, its day-and-night off kilter in comparison to the _Peremptory's _schedule. But Nathon's eyes were sharp and focused, and his smile a touch wry when he recognized who it was that had woken him.

"Luthar," he greeted, stifling a yawn. "If you're calling in the middle of my ship's night to tell me that you've made Captain already…"

Some of the mirth died in his eyes at the sour expression on Friel's face. "Sit down, Nathon. I've got something to tell you."


	4. Chapter 4 - A conversation over Lunch

A/N: Thanks to **Shadir, m4x70r**, and **DarthPhoenixFire** for the wonderful reviews. That always makes me smile. :)

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OCs. Please do not sue. This is purely for fun.

* * *

It was hard to tell which way was up anymore, and after falling to the deck for the third time, Renet gave up. She lay on the floor in a drug-filled haze, her body feeling… hollow. Like whatever they put into her had slowly dissolved her insides. It wasn't painful in the least, and a small part of her realized that should have been more horrifying than anything else. It was just… empty. Like she was a thin glass sculpture of a woman, so delicate that she would shatter at the wrong breath.

Gant had kept his word in part. The drugs that were routinely injected did not hurt at all. After the third time the droid floated in, its poison needle extended, she only closed her eyes. She couldn't fight anymore. Glass was too delicate to fight. So she let it do what it was programmed to do, and opened her eyes after the humming vanished, indicating the droid had left. Or at least she thought she opened her eyes.

Everything was so blurry now, and she had nothing left in which to feel anything. The floor beneath her was far away, the unconscious flexing of her fingers could have been the actions of another person. But she was calm. Oh, she was very calm. And she did not hurt anymore, just as Gant had promised. At least, she'd stopped hurting after he'd taken off that pain inducer and injected her with a different drug. That one had set her mind spinning, had chased away all those nightmarish thoughts that had filled her mind when he'd whispered to her.

She'd stopped sobbing then. Stopped thinking, too. It was okay to be Prisoner Seven. Renet was full of shame and fear and pain. But Prisoner Seven? She was empty of everything. And that was kind of nice.

She'd even smiled at him, at this imperial that had hurt her so badly. "Prisoner Seven likes this," she'd whispered dully, words slurred almost beyond recognition. "Prisoner Seven does not want to feel anymore. Will Lieutenant Commander Gant kill Prisoner Seven now, please? Prisoner Seven doesn't want to live with her shame anymore."

He'd taken off her cuffs by then, easing her gently to the floor. Those fingers brushed back her dirty hair with a tenderness that had shocked her more than the pain had, cradling her head in the crook of his elbow. She'd begged him to kill her again, and for a blissful second she thought he would. But the gloved fingers on her chin turned from firm grip to gentle caress. She had no idea what he'd said to her next. Something about her brother, maybe?

Oh stars, what would Nathon think or say when he saw her like this? When he learned she was a rebel? Why, why had she done it?

No, wait. _She_ hadn't done it. _She_ wasn't Renate Tydon anymore. Gant had said so, himself. She was Prisoner Seven. And Prisoner Seven didn't have a family or a brother or any affiliations to be ashamed about.

Yes, it was better to be Prisoner Seven.

But those caressing gloved fingers had gripped her chin again, firmly. And Gant had leaned down to stare hard into her eyes. He'd said something. Asked something. And she knew if she didn't answer him, he was going to hurt her again. But what had it been? What did he want? She'd said everything already, answered his questions multiple times. Always the same answer to the same question. Because it was the truth. It was all the truth.

"Prisoner Seven wants to tell Lieutenant Commander Gant a story," she'd said at last, hoping it was the right thing to say. Praying it was. "It's about a little girl named Luna and her brother named Star. And how much Luna wanted to be like her brother, so much so that she reflected his light in everything she'd done.

"She wanted so much to be like Star that she let a bad Planet eclipse his light. She let Planet tell her that there were other ways to make Star proud, that one day she could be just as big and bright as Star if she listened to him. So she let Planet come between her and Star. And Luna was so very cold and dark without Star's light, but she didn't know it. She couldn't know it because Planet was so big, so much bigger than she was.

"And when she tried to move away from Planet, he trapped her in his gravity. Until a comet struck Luna, a comet that should have hit Planet, but because Luna was trapped in his gravity, she couldn't get out of the way. And Planet did not save her. So now Luna is broken and can't reflect Star's light. And the comets keep hitting her and she keeps calling for Star, but he can't hear her over the comets striking her, shattering her bits at a time until nothing is left.

"And all Luna can hope for now is that Star remembers her when she was whole and loving and reflecting his light proudly. And that maybe, when the comets are done with her, enough is left of her to become glittering asteroids, like diamonds to reflect his light and protect him from comets and remind Star just how much she loved him, and how very sorry she is…"

She'd rambled at the end, her sentences so tangled and made of thick grief. Trying to communicate to this man that she understood she was going to die. But she didn't want to take her brother down with her. Gant's fingertips had touched her lips then, silencing her. His gloved hand had passed over her eyes, closing them as he laid her down on the floor. She'd obeyed, because Prisoner Seven had nothing left in her but to obey. It was so much easier to obey.

There was no way to know how long she'd laid there exactly as he'd left her. Afraid to move an inch lest he become displeased and bring back the pain. Unable to feel anything in her. Somewhere in that strange limbo-like existence, she'd fallen asleep. Only woken when the first droid came into the black box that was her galaxy, injecting her again, sending her mind floating away from her body. Only coming back to herself in time to recognize the same droid with the same needle, injecting her a second time. And a third. And if there were more after that, she'd lost count or the ability to care.

She wasn't Renate anymore. She wasn't even Renet, or Luna, or Prisoner Seven. She was empty glass. And that was okay.

"No, that's not okay."

The thing that was empty glass tried to blink at the voice, tried to recognize it. Something touched her shoulder and a moment later she could distinguish between light and darkness, between up and down.

"There we go," that voice that she should know said softly. "Prisoner Seven, can you hear me?"

Her mouth was very dry, and it took all she had to swallow and nod. A curious tingling was starting to work its way through her hollow limbs, a rushing sensation as if someone was filling her emptiness with… something. Something that felt a lot like her. Like they were pouring her personality back into her empty vessel.

Tears filled her eyes, sliding down her cheeks. "You promised," she whispered, light and darkness resolving itself further to the blurred image of a man's face. "Lieutenant Commander Gant promised Prisoner Seven that she wouldn't feel pain if she obeyed."

"Prisoner Seven did obey," Gant said, slipping an arm beneath her shoulders and one beneath her knees. "Prisoner Seven has earned a reward."

She tried to shake her head in protest, but he had already lifted her from the deck, depositing her on a floating gurney. The feeling of metal returned to one arm, the sound of a pair of binders locking one wrist to a restraining bar. And then the feeling of warmth, of blessed wonderful warmth as a heated blanket was draped over her numbed body. Gant's hand returned to her hair, smoothing it back with the same gentleness before pushing the gurney forward. She turned on her side as much as she could, drawing the blanket up over her face.

Hiding her identity, her shame. What if someone had seen her, had noticed the family resemblance? She couldn't let it happen. She wasn't sure why that mattered anymore, but it did. And she clung to that.

The trip to where ever Gant had taken her ended quickly, and he gently tugged on her blanket. "Why did you cover your face?"

"Prisoner Seven…" she trailed off, closing her eyes again. Think. It was still so hard to think. How to say it without offending him, without earning pain. "Prisoner Seven is… Prisoner Seven…"

Oh, things had been so much easier when she couldn't think about her past, about what she'd done as Renet! Now he was forcing her to face it again, wasn't he? Couldn't he understand what she'd told him, that she wanted to protect her brother? Why was he making her remember when he was the one that had forced her to forget in the first place!

"Prisoner Seven doesn't want a reward," she said dejectedly, accepting there was nothing she could say that would save her from pain. Either the physical pain of displeasing her jailor, or the emotional pain of remembering who she was and what she had done. "Prisoner Seven wants nothing. Prisoner Seven is nothing."

The binder fell away from her wrist and still she didn't react. Even when she heard him sigh. "Get up, Renet Camlyn. I will not carry you. The drugs should be flushed from your system enough for standing."

On reflex and a fear of irritating him, she pushed herself to a sitting position, confusion working through the dullness that lingered from the retreating drugs. Did he just call her by her alias, by her rebel name? Wasn't she… "Pri—"

"Miss Camlyn, I will not repeat myself. You will listen and you will stand."

She did as requested, holding onto the side of the gurney to keep herself steady.

"Good. Behind me is a standard refresher station. I expect you to be exceptionally clean and dressed in the clothing provided to you within fifteen minutes. Your time starts now."

He turned to the side and took a seat, his back to the refresher station. There was no door on it, she noted, no place for any kind of privacy. And on a low table sat the pile of clothing and a small sack. For her old clothing, she assumed. But why? Why was he doing this if she was to be executed anyway? What was the point?

It was still so hard to think. Things were getting clearer now, but the dullness remained, eating away at the edge of her consciousness.

"Fourteen minutes now, Miss Camlyn. You do not want to add wasting my time to the list of grievances against you."

The thought of being clean was so inviting. So… delightful. She moved before she realized it, stripping and stepping into the sonic. There was a rail installed in this one, and she clung to it with all she had as the vibrations washed away the dirt and grime from her body. He had been right about the 'fresher being standard, and she recognized the ports that dispensed cleansers. The soap had no fragrance but it did its job. And the warmth that emanated from the floor was almost as good as standing under a hot spray of water.

It was glorious.

"Five minutes, Miss Camlyn."

It was harder than she could imagine turning off that sonic. She wanted to linger in it as she had wanted to linger under the blanket, or in her state of nothingness. But turn it off she did, the sharpness in Gant's tone brooking no arguments. She dressed quickly in a simple gray tunic and pants, soft boots on her feet. Beneath the empty sack was a basic hair brush, and she used it to the best of her abilities. There was no mirror in the area, so she hoped she was as 'exceptionally clean' as he had requested.

She stepped back to the side of the gurney as he was in the middle of calling out her two minute warning. When she lowered her head this time, a tumble of red-blonde curls cascaded down her shoulders and face. Unruly curls inherited from their father, a lion's golden mane to match the lion sigil that was the crest of the Tydon family. Nathon had been so lucky to have their mother's hair, hair that would behave itself even in the worst of winds.

She heard Gant rise, saw his polished boots come to a halt an inch before her feet.

"Look at me, Miss Camlyn."

She did.

His expression softened considerably. "Okay, here are the rules. We are going to sit and have a conversation. You are to answer honestly and completely. And politely, I might add. If you agree to this, we will do away with the need for drugs and inducers. Do you think you can do that?"

"Pris—yes, sir."

He reached forward, and she flinched only slightly when he took her wrist in his hand, guiding her to a tiny table. Which contained a tray of food, a glass, and a pitcher of water. Her confusion intensified as he guided her to the seat closest to the food, pulled her chair out for her, and then took the seat across from her. She folded her hands on top of the table, afraid to put them in her lap, afraid to do anything really.

"Are you hungry, Miss Camlyn?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then I suggest you eat," he watched her glance at the food and back at him, and he smiled slightly. "I've already had my noon meal, I assure you. Please, eat."

A brief flicker of defiance went through her, a memory of Vrad telling her how to die with honor if the Imperials ever caught her. Of how he would act under imperial interrogation. She wasn't supposed to do anything they wanted, ever. But she'd already broken, hadn't she? They'd known her connection to Nathon, pried her mind wide with drugs and dug out everything they'd wanted. In the end, she'd had no choice. And now she wore their clothes and sat facing the prospect of eating their food.

But if she'd already broken, what was the point of pretending she was anything like Vrad? The first bite was flavored with the bitterness of smashed pride and failure. The second only slightly less than the first, and so on and so forth.

Gant's smile grew by a degree as she began to work on the meal. "You don't get much food being a rebel, do you?"

She looked down, set aside her utensil. "No, sir."

"Supply line issues, I take it?"

"Yes, sir."

"You can call me Avery," he said conversationally, settling back in his seat as he watched her.

"No, sir."

That earned an amused chuckle. "No? Is it because I'm an Imperial officer?"

"No, sir."

"Explain it to me then."

"You… I don't want to know you. I don't want to hurt anyone else. I… can I be prisoner seven again, please?"

He fought hard to keep that wince he felt from showing on his face. "You aren't just Prisoner Seven anymore, Miss Camlyn. We had a deal, remember? If you promised to answer me truthfully, I would restore your name. I was able to verify everything you told me and I'm a man of my word. Your name and identity have been restored to you. Keep eating, please. You are dangerously malnourished."

"Yes, sir."

He smiled gently this time. "How about we try again? You can call me Gant. People who don't know me call me Gant."

She hesitated a moment, and then nodded. "Okay… Gant."

"When was the last time you had this much food at one time, Miss Camlyn?"

"Almost a month, si—Mr. Gant."

"And where was that?"

"On Ord Man—"

He watched her catch herself, but it was too late. She'd been caught up in the flow of the harmless conversation, in the simple repetition of easily answered questions. So when he slipped in a serious question, she'd answered without thinking.

"Ord Mantell," he finished for her, cataloguing that planet for further research. Another link in the rebel supply chain. "That's a long way from Tatooine, Miss Camlyn. Isn't that where you met Vrad Dodonna? No, keep eating. I want you to clear that plate. You need it."

"Yes, that's where I met him."

"Why was he there?"

"I… Please, I don't—"

"Remember the rules, Miss Camlyn," he said, letting his tone cool slightly. "We are having a conversation. Let's keep it that way."

She flinched, looking away, hiding behind a fall of that golden hair. It was charming, that motion. And he could see how a weary and surly rebel would have found her naivety enchantingly refreshing. Renate Tydon wasn't hard on the eyes, either, though he did not let himself dwell on that thought for very long. Regardless of the fact that there was a scant eight year age difference between them, she was still the sister of a man he respected highly.

She was still a confessed rebel, though he was working as hard as he could to have that charge reduced significantly.

Nevertheless, he made a mental note to offer hair ribbons to her as a reward, and to encourage her to use them. He'd broken her hard, true, but he was not quite ready for her to rebuild herself without his complete control. And the little shield she offered herself with her hair was not something he was willing to allow her to keep.

"I'm waiting for an answer, Miss Camlyn. Remember what happens if I have to repeat myself."

That got through, shattering her moment of resistance. She took a bite of her food quickly, as if proving that she was obeying him, chewed and swallowed. "He was meeting someone. I don't know who."

"For what reason?"

"I don't know."

"I think you do, you just don't realize that you know it."

"I… I'm sorry?"

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and propping his chin up on a fist. A move that was calculated to confuse her with its familiarity, to make her try and forget that this was in fact an interrogation. Just two people having a talk, sharing information.

"See, I believe Vrad Dodonna was meeting someone from your delegation, Miss Camlyn. He was either picking up information or transporting it. The next stop on your diplomatic tour was Naboo, wasn't it?"

"Yes, but I don't see how? I mean, about meeting someone from our delegation. Every one of us wanted to be an ambassador, wanted to change the galaxy, Mr. Gant. Why would they do something so foolish?"

"Foolish like, say, joining the rebellion?"

She flushed, set down her utensil and started to look away. To shield herself behind her hair again. His hand reached out, caught hers. "Don't do that, Renet. You shouldn't hide behind your hair like that. You have very lovely eyes, and more than that, you have a highly inquisitive mind. We've already discussed how that inquisitiveness led to a bad lapse in judgment. But we're making strides to correct that, aren't we?"

Again, she took the bait, and again he cursed himself for doing this. Trust was starting to work its way through her confusion, seeing him as her only alley. Falling for that part of his personality that made him appear so honest.

"What do you need from me?" She asked.

"Just answers to questions. It isn't all that hard, now is it? Let's try another approach. Who among your delegation had strong ties to Naboo?"

"I… there was a girl in our group named Vera Naberrie. She claimed that her mother was once a handmaiden to a Naboo queen. But that could have been bragging or make-believe or—"

"It's a start. Did Vera have any contact with Dodonna?"

He watched her pale. "She introduced me to him. Said they met when she snuck out to see a real cantina."

Gant stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. "Good. What did they talk about?"

"It was stupid. Just more of Vera bragging about her family on Naboo and how they once served the Queens. Queen Amidala and Queen Jamillia, I think. Talking about a lake house and clandestine meetings and that sort of thing."

His eyes flashed at that, clicking together pieces of the puzzle in his head. "I think we have enough for now, and you have finished your meal. A nice place to close this talk, don't you think?"

She stared down at the empty plate and equally empty pitcher of water. "I… yes, sir—I mean Mr. Gant."

"You're doing very well, Miss Camlyn."

"But not well enough for you to let me go."

He shook his head. "That's not on the table right now. You will have to pay for your crimes, but every bit of information you give me lessens that price. Now come with me. I'll escort you back."

"Wait, what about my brother? Is he going to—"

"As far as I'm aware, Renet Camlyn doesn't have a brother. She was born on Alderaan. Anything else about her was lost when the planet was destroyed. Unless you have something more to say?"

Her eyes filled with tears, and beneath that gratitude. He was going to help her protect her brother. She'd made the right decision for once. "No, Mr. Gant."

When she entered her cell, there was padding on the metal shelf, a pillow and a blanket. And when the droid arrived later that night, it carried a dinner tray instead of an injector. On that tray was a scrap of flimsi and a long red ribbon.

_For your hair. It kept getting in the way of your eyes._

No signature. It didn't need one.


	5. Chapter 5 - Unexpected Arrivals

A/N: Thank you to** Shadir** and **HollisterGuyzAreHot **for the lovely reviews! Each review helps to keep me on track with this story, so thank you all for that. Thank you also to those that have favorited and followed this story. :)

Also, a special thank you to **m4x70r** for letting me play with the OC Nathon Tydon from the story "To No Avail." It's worth the read so please check it out!

* * *

He should have expected this, Friel mused darkly as he stepped onto the deck of the _Peremptory's_ main shuttle bay. Around him officers came to sharp attention, crewers and techs either scurrying out of his way or peering at him from around their work. It wasn't exactly an uncommon occurrence to see the ship's First Officer in the bay. However he was normally accompanied by Captain Kand if this was a surprise visit by an Admiral or a sudden need to pick up this Imperial dignitary or that. At the very least orders would have come through well in advance of his arrival and the deck officer would have made certain the place was so clean he could see his reflection off the racked TIE-fighters.

Commander Friel's visit this time did not fall under any of the above circumstances. Nor did the visitor he was coming to greet.

The landing ramp of the _lambda_ class shuttle lowered just as Friel reached it, doing his best to not look like he'd just ran from the bridge all the way to the bay. Which he had, and that further served to heighten his annoyance.

He should have expected this, damn it. And that annoyed him the most.

The man that walked down the ramp looked out of place in civilian clothing. Imperial training nearly poured off of him in waves, from the tight controlled steps of his walk up to the squared set of his shoulders. The tunic and pants were well cut if simple in design, the fabric sturdy yet of obvious good quality. Same went with the knee high boots. It was the traveling outfit of someone from a wealthy Core world family, someone that did not like a lot of frills. Someone that did not want his family name known at the moment, either.

But Friel knew him, knew him all too well.

"Tydon," he said grimly, walking forward to grip the other man's arm below the elbow in greeting. "I'd like to say welcome, but you know that isn't the case."

"Friel," Commander Nathon Tydon returned the grip and the greeting. "I'd like to say this is a happy reunion as well. We both know that would be a lie. Where is she?"

"You know where she is, and that I'm not going to let you see her. So get back on that shuttle and go back to your ship."

"I can't," Tydon replied, voice just as low and grim. "You know that, too."

"The _Peremptory_ isn't a pleasure ship for officers to stroll about while on leave. I can't make any exceptions."

"Can't or won't?"

Friel's lips compressed in a thin line, meeting the hard stare in his best friend's eyes. Tydon was a stubborn bastard when he set his mind to something, and it was clear that his mind was on saving his sister's life. Meaning that if Friel didn't let him on board officially, he'd find some other way to get on board unofficially. Or he'd simply stand there in the center of the docking bay and wait. Wait as long as it took to get the answers he wanted. Friel would have to literally order him beaten unconscious, restrained and thrown back into the shuttle before he'd move an inch.

That kind of stubborn loyalty was part of what made Tydon a great officer and an even better friend. It's also what made him a supreme pain in the ass.

"Kriff it all, Nathon, come with me," Friel sighed. "You aren't going to listen to reason right now."

Tydon picked up his small bag and slung it over his shoulder, falling into step beside him. "Thank you, Luthar."

"Don't thank me yet. You could find yourself in a cell next to Renet for this if Captain Kand decides you aren't worth the trouble."

For the first time a bit of a smile touched Tydon's lips. "I'd love to hear his reason for it, especially how he plans to explain that to Captain Ronoe."

Friel didn't share that smile. If anything, he frowned more. "You Tydons really enjoy making my life complicated, don't you? The last thing we need is for two decorated fleet captains like Kand and Ronoe getting into a spitting contest over a wayward First Officer. Who, I might add, wouldn't hold that rank for long after that. I hope you know what you are doing."

Tydon reached out, caught Friel's sleeve before the other could call for the turbolift. "Answer me truly, Luthar. If you can tell me right now that you did nothing to protect her, that you honestly believe she deserves this fate, then I'll get back on that shuttle and find a way to deal with the pain of her loss. Look me in the eye and tell me my career is worth more than her life at this point. Say it truthfully and I'll believe you."

Friel's mouth opened once and then compressed in a thin line. "I can't."

Some of the tension drained from Tydon's shoulders. Not much, but some, and he let go of the other man's arm. "Which is why you didn't order me beaten and thrown back on that shuttle. Don't deny it, I saw that thought plainly on your face. I would have done the same if our positions were reversed."

"I may still do it," Friel snapped, no real bite to the words as they stepped into the lift. "If you interfere with anything regarding Renet without my expressed permission, you'll wish I only had you beaten before tossing you out the nearest airlock. You're a civilian on this, Nathon. Don't forget it for a second."

The grim termination returned to Tydon's eyes, but to Friel's relief, he nodded. "Agreed. I'm not in my right mind on this one, Luthar. I know it. But neither can I sit back and watch. I have to be here with her and try to make sense out of all of this."

"Does your father know about Renet?"

Tydon shook his head. "Not yet. No one bearing the name Tydon has been listed in connection with the rebels at present. I believe I have you to thank for that."

"Not me completely. There's another on this ship playing guardian to your reputation," Friel corrected, shaking his head when Tydon lifted both eyebrows questioningly. "I'll let you judge for yourself. Tell me, did you bring something strong to drink in that rich bag of yours?"

"Correllian whiskey," Tydon replied, giving the bag a light pat. "I brought more of that then I brought clothing."

"For bribes?"

"Something like that."

"Then save your best bottle for Captain Kand," Friel muttered when the doors parted. He handed a data card to Tydon. "This contains your room assignment and the personal code to my own. Go refresh yourself and leave the second best bottle on my desk. I will have earned it after I convince Captain Kand not to space the pair of us for this."

* * *

Captain Kand didn't exactly force Friel to chew hard vacuum, but at the end of that conversation, he felt as if he had. Captain Avel Kand wasn't an unreasonable man, and in Friel's opinion was one of the best officers that he had had the privilege of serving under. But Kand did believe in rules, almost religiously so. Regulations were in place for the good of all, and unless the reason was particularly compelling, one did not simply disregard the regs. Especially not on board the _Peremptory_, and very much not on his watch.

Ever.

But Kand was also a family man in his own right, a widower with three children and eight grandchildren to date. He had recently agreed to a political marriage to Estille Praji of the influential Praji banking clan. Rumor had it that after only three months of marriage, Estille, who was forty years younger, was expecting Kand's fourth child. So Captain Kand made it painfully clear that he understood well the need to protect one's family and reputation. He had also made it abundantly clear that he did not appreciate being strong-armed into accepting the XO of the _Dark Star_ as a guest on his ship.

Tydon could stay—for now. But it would cost more than a bottle of good whiskey, and that bill would be handed to Friel, personally, when all was said and done.

It came as no surprise to Friel when he entered his quarters and found Tydon pacing before his desk. The promised bottle of whiskey for the Captain was standing on the smooth steel surface. Its twin sat next to it, two glasses nestled against its side.

Tydon's pacing came to an abrupt stop. "Well?"

"You can stay for now."

"And Renet?"

"Is still my prisoner, Nathon," he said, crossing over to his desk and sitting behind it. "And until I think it's wise, you aren't going to so much as breath her name aloud. Captain Kand knows who she really is, and he's agreed to keep that information under tight control for the moment. But that gift isn't my doing, mind you. It's courtesy of your spotless record and the praise that Captain Ronoe has layered onto that. Without that good will, you'd be sharing that cell with Renet right now."

Tydon sat in the chair across from him, rubbing a hand roughly over his face. It was clear that the man hadn't slept well in days, probably not since Friel had woken him with the bad news. A hint of stubble shadowed his jaw, his military short hair slightly ruffled from running his hands through it in frustration. Not the image of the immaculately groomed officer his record reflected.

"You need sleep, Nathon," Friel said softly, popping open the bottle next to the glasses and pouring for the both of them. "I mean it. And a razor. How long have you been hiding from yours?"

"It wasn't important," Tydon replied, knocking back his glass in a long hard swallow. Pushing it back towards Friel for a refill. "Getting here was all I could think of. And before you ask, no. I'm not stupid enough to have deserted my post. I've had some leave saved, thirty standard days to be exact, and I took it all."

"I know," Friel drained his own glass. "That was the first thing Kand researched before agreeing to talk about you."

"Nice to see my intelligence is so highly regarded," he snapped bitterly.

"After the way you just appeared and asked to board? You may want to rethink that last statement, my friend, and adjust your attitude accordingly. You may not be stupid, but you are acting the part of the fool and we both know it."

There was nothing he could say to that, so he said nothing. Tydon took up his glass again, staring into the amber liquid a long moment. "I couldn't stay away. Stars, Luthar, it's Renet. _Renet!_ I still can't wrap my head around it. She's a child, and should be doing child-like things like chasing boys or putting on fancy dresses to go to some party. At the very least she should be at a university, not in a… kriff it, I can't bring myself to say it."

"She's a rebel, Nathon," Luthar said heavily, quietly. "I was the first one to interrogate her. I saw it in her, saw the hatred in her eyes. She's one of them."

Tydon shook his head slowly, setting the glass down on the desk with careful precision, as if not trusting himself to handle anything delicate. "She's still Renet. Somewhere in that head of hers is a reason for this. We just have to find it."

"We?"

Tydon met his gaze evenly. "You know I could be of help in this, Luthar. I know her better than anyone else. I can reason with her."

"Forgetting already that you're a civilian in this matter?"

"No," the other growled. "I'm being a conscientious Imperial citizen and by right of that status voicing my concerns and opinions on the matter."

"Do I even want to know that opinion?"

"Something happened to Renet, Luthar. She didn't make this decision on her own. That isn't the decision of the sister I know."

Friel stared at his best friend a long minute, and came to a heavy decision. He set his glass down hard on the desk, turning to his computer. The requested files sprang to his fingertips in moments. "Then allow me to educate you, citizen, on the sister you know so well."

He turned the screen towards Tydon and played the file. Pulling both bottles and glasses out of his reach as the first interrogation session danced across the monitor. He watched Tydon's reaction, the way his friend's face filled with horror the way his had wanted to at her appearance. Dirty, emaciated, and animalistic. He watched Tydon wince as she spit her hurtful words, the ignorant rebel rhetoric flying from her lips. And finally watched Tydon's shoulders slump as Friel turned away from Renet and ordered the level one interrogation.

Out of mercy he turned off the recording before Lieutenant Commander Gant started the second session. No one needed to see their sibling reduced to a broken thing, tortured with drugs and pain. Stars above knew that Friel, himself, wanted to burn out his own eyes if it would take that memory from him.

He pushed a full glass towards Tydon. "Drink."

Tydon did. And downed a third glass as Friel's urging.

"Did she…" Tydon began, swallowing hard. "The level one, did she…"

"She broke," Friel supplied. "Minimal use of drugs and inducers were needed, if that's any comfort. The officer in charge of her interrogation believes that she's had enough. Level two won't be necessary. She's talking freely now, answering his questions truthfully and to the best of her ability."

Tydon stared down at his hands. "How much does she know?"

"Not much of anything, thankfully. She's only been with the rebels a month at most. Nathon, I have to ask. Do you know of any reason why she would have gone to Tatooine?"

Tydon's head snapped up, brows furrowed. "Tatooine? No. There's no reason she would have gone to that Hutt infested dust bowl. Why?"

"How about Naboo, or Ord Mantell?"

Again Tydon frowned, shaking his head. "Naboo was the destination of her diplomacy project, according to her last holo to me. Queen Kylantha had opened her home personally to the young delegates. Her Royal Highness is as loyal to the Empire as any monarch can be these days; given the Regional Governors now control the star systems instead. It seemed safe enough. Again, why are you asking?"

"Renet confessed to meeting the rebel that recruited her on Tatooine. She claims that another delegate had ties to Naboo, and that delegate was the one that introduced Renet to the recruiter."

Tydon was on his feet in a flash. "Then why the kriff are we sitting here when we should be after that delegate and her recruiter alley?"

"Calm yourself, Nathon. We have to follow the rules on this to the letter. No mistakes. Not if we want to keep her alive and you out of the crossfire. Intelligence is already at work trying to find this delegate and this recruiter. We have to let them do their job."

"I want that bastard, Luthar," Tydon growled softly, sinking back into the chair.

"So do I. And depending on what we find, I'm fairly certain that Captain Kand will let you have first go at that rebel."

"I don't want the first hit. I want the last one. I want to be the one that ends him for this. I want to be the last thing he sees before I send him screaming into the afterlife. He deserves it for doing this to her. I blame all of this on him."

Friel shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His next words were going to hit his friend harder than a blaster bolt. "Nathon, I need you to prepare yourself for the possibility that Renet really is a rebel. That she joined them willingly. This war has done some hateful things to many people, and torn plenty of families apart. We've both seen it. I need you to understand that you may be in one of those families."

"I'm not ready to go there yet," he replied honestly, sliding his glass over for another fill. "If you are asking me if I'll ever be ready to label my baby sister a terrorist, or to watch her executed for it, I don't think I'll ever be. Which is why I need to talk to her. I need to see her with my own eyes, Luthar."

Friel refilled the glasses, and the two drank in silence for a long time.

* * *

Gant stepped out of Prisoner Three's cell, wiping the blood from his hands on a clean white cloth provided by the hovering interrogator droid. It all belonged to Prisoner Three, to the rebel formally known as Rovan Thark of Hyomare III. He was referring to himself as Prisoner Three now, or would when he regained the ability to speak. Just as Renet had referred to herself as Prisoner Seven after undergoing his less than tender ministrations. But in that there was a kind of victory at least.

Renet had broken with a limited amount of plying on his part. Which was good for the kid, and according to all accounts she was being very cooperative since. There was hope for her, unlike the mess he had left behind him. Prisoner Three had undergone Level Two interrogation, and had nearly pushed himself into the next level. If Gant had to go that route, there would be nothing left of the man to punish. His mind would have been literally fried from the chemicals, his body and spirit shattered.

But he would have given over the information Gant's superiors required before he died. They always did.

Gant pursed his lips. "Keep an eye on Prisoner Three," he instructed the droid, tossing the towel into the tray in its arms and spraying the sanitizing solution over his hands. "I want to know if he behaves as I have instructed when he regains consciousness. If not, we may have to take more drastic measures."

The droid beeped its acknowledgment, zooming away on its near silent repulsors. Gant started down the hallway as he pulled his gloves free from the back of his belt, slipping them on. And pausing at a familiar door. Renet was behind it, and if memory served, she would be sitting in the leftmost corner of her cell, the blanket wrapped around her, staring blankly at the door. It was what she had done for the past two days since their conversation. He hadn't had the time to check on her personally, the other prisoners not having the common courtesy to break as easily as she had. But every so often he had clicked on the hidden cameras in her cell, watching her.

She wore his ribbon, all those red-blonde curls pulled back from her face dutifully.

On impulse he keyed opened her door and stepped in.

She was sleeping, propped up in her preferred corner. Freshly clean and in a new tunic, rewarded with those things due to her good behavior. The blanket had fallen off of one shoulder, nearly inviting him to step forward and correct it. Again, he was struck by the resemblance between her and Commander Tydon. And again he was struck with the small pang that her young life had led her to him. Seventeen, he shook his head. Far too young to be in a cell, to have undergone the sort of pain that came with being his prisoner.

He turned away, and paused when he heard the rustling of that blanket.

"Mr. Gant?" she asked blearily, blinking at him.

"Good evening, Miss Camlyn."

Those mismatched eyes focused on him, and he watched them fill with the usual mingling of hope and dread at his appearance. Her hands shook as they gripped the blanket. "Am I… Are you here to… to talk to me again?"

"No, Miss Camlyn. I merely came to check your progress."

"Oh. T-thank you."

He knew he should leave. He shouldn't have come into her cell to begin with, and yet his feet seemed to turn back to her on their own. He crossed the room, sitting next to her. She held her breath a long moment, primal instinct looking for the trap in his actions, waiting for the pain. He crossed his arms over his chest, crossed one ankle over the other. And simply leaned back, staring at the door.

"You're tired," she said after a long silence.

He slanted a look at her, one eyebrow lifting slightly. "Am I?"

"Yes."

He was, truth be told. Both physically and emotionally and everything in between. This post, he'd been told in the beginning, could wear out an officer long before he reached retirement age. But he'd wanted the commission to an actual Star Destroyer rather than a planet-bound assignment, and this was the only spot available. Now… now he was contemplating a willing demotion in rank just to get some distance from it. Too many had passed through his hands, too many lives ended because of their foolish decision to stand against the Empire and its laws.

The fact that he was sitting there, taking small comfort in the presence of one of his prisoners, was evidence enough that he needed out.

"I am tired," he admitted.

"Me, too."

That brought a hint of a smile to his lips. "I can imagine."

"Wil-will it be long now?"

"Until what, Miss Camlyn?"

"Until it's over."

He shrugged a shoulder. "I told you that letting you go isn't on the tab—"

"That's not what I meant, Mr. Gant," she whispered. "I'm tired, and I want this to be over. Will it be long before you kill me?"

Against his better judgment, against his training, he jerked at that softly spoken question. Yes, it had always been a possibility that the order would come down, that he would program a droid to deliver the lethal dose of whatever drug he thought best. But to hear it out loud, to hear her request it… it brought the ghostly prospect of "possibility" dangerously close to reality.

His gloved hand reached out, caught her chin and turned her face towards his. "You understand that I'm trying to prevent that, right? You made a poor choice, Miss Camlyn. We all have done that at least once in our lifetimes. Some of us are lucky enough to have a chance to correct them. Don't you want that chance?"

He would let her turn away, kept her eyes steady on his. "Y-yes, I do. But it seems hopeless now, Mr. Gan—"

"Avery. Call me Avery."

"Mr. Ga—"

"_Avery._"

"I have to pay for my crimes," she said instead, closing her eyes. "I-I just want to pay for them now. So please, let me. I don't want to be like this anymore. I d-don't even know what day it is. How long it's been since I've been here. I know its evening only because you said it. And I tried counting the days by when I've slept. But if that's true, then it's been thirty days. I don't even know if I sleep through meals. I…"

He let go of her chin as she trailed off, compressing his lips in a thin line. He shouldn't do this. Stars above, he knew that. And still he couldn't stop himself. "We must trade, Miss Camlyn. That is our arrangement. Give me something and I will give you something."

"I don't have anything left to give you."

"You said that the last time," he turned to face her, propping one leg on the shelf and planting his elbow on his knee, his chin resting against his palm. "And we proved you wrong, didn't we? So let's prove you wrong again. Tell me something else about Vrad Dodonna."

She sighed, lower lip trembling as she fought back frustrated tears. "He only talked about that lake house on Naboo, Mr. G—Avery. Or he talked about the rebellion and what it would do after they won. Failure was never a possibility with him. But he never talked about the present. Only encouraged me to learn how to shoot or how to fix a hyperdrive. Said I would need those skills in the long run."

Only if she wanted to spend the rest of her life as a dirty spacer, Gant thought bitterly. "Tell me about this lake house, then." He said aloud.

"I… I can draw it for you. I saw a picture of it once. I think it was his dream house or something. He said that he wanted to get married there, that two people once got married there that changed the galaxy."

"Who was it that got married there?"

"He wouldn't tell me. Said it was too important to keep it a secret, because the marriage was secret. That's all I know."

It sounded like a line to him, like something a cruddy two-credit rebel would use to seduce an innocent young girl to his bed. A fairytale for lack of a better term. But he would follow up on it anyway, especially if the drawing she provided turned up anything.

"Okay," he said, giving her one of his soft smiles and rising to his feet. "You upheld your end of the arrangement. Now it's my turn. Come with me."

He held out his hand to her, and after a moment of hesitation she took it. And offered her other wrist to him as well, expecting binders, no doubt. He let his smile widen. "No binders this time, Miss Camlyn, so long as you obey me."

"I will, M—Avery."

He took her upper arm in his hand and led her out the door. The interview room was tiny as far as offices went, but it was mammoth in comparison to her cell. He let her settle into one of the plush chairs while he brought her a data pad, and a glass of juice. A small one, albeit. But it was better than water.

"Draw this house for me."

He settled back in the chair next to her, sipping at a cup of caff while she worked. When she finished, he decided, he would take her on a short walk around the detention center. Let her stretch her legs a bit. And if her picture turned up anything, however small or unlikely, he would give her a chance to stare out a viewport at the stars.

For the moment, though, he was content to sit and drink his caff and watch her draw.


	6. Chapter 6 - Preparations

A/N: Thanks for all the reviews, follows and favorites! And as always, a special thank you to **m4x70r** for the use of the OC Nathon Tydon from the story "To No Avail." :D

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OCs. Please do not sue. This is purely for fun.

* * *

The news certainly should not have been unexpected, and still it somehow managed to steal the breath from his lungs. Beside him, Tydon sat down—hard. Friel fought the impulse to follow him, locking his knees rigidly against the unwelcomed feeling of doom that painted his friend's face. Somehow, he had known it would always come down to this.

And somehow, against all logic, Friel had held onto that small thread of hope. "Captain?"

"You heard me, Friel," Captain Kand growled softly. "It's no longer in our hands, and you better pray to whatever gods you follow that Lord Vader is feeling kind when we arrive. Commander Tydon, you have my sincerest sympathies. However it is probably best for all involved if you return to your ship immediately."

Tydon ran a hand roughly across his newly shaven jaw, wide eyes searching Kand's office desparately, as if he could find the key out of this nightmare somewhere in the sparse decorations. "Sir, with all due respect—

"Tydon, I don't want to hear it," Kand held up a hand, forestalling the man. "Nothing that begins that way is ever full of the respect that it's supposedly due. I'm not in the practice of ignoring orders from my superiors, and those orders are telling me to rendezvous with the _Executor_ as soon as possible for a prisoner transfer. Your sister has made this mess and, stars help her, the Lord Vader wants to straighten it out personally. So that's what's going to happen. Period."

"Did he say why?"

The frown that creased Kand's face had Friel placing that hand on Tydon's shoulder, warningly.

"Son, out of _true_ respect due to my First Officer and his vouching for you, I'm going to ignore that," the Captain warned. "In case you missed the memo on how I run things on the _Peremptory_, I'm also not in the practice of questioning my superiors, or throwing away good officers regardless of their best intentions otherwise. Which is why I'm ordering you off my ship before we depart to meet with the _Executor_. If Lord Vader finds you here, all the efforts put in place to hide your connection to Prisoner Seven will be for nothing."

Kand softened his tone, staring the younger man in the eye. "I know what it's like to lose a family member this way, Commander Tydon. Learn from my experience and consider her dead as of now. Take the rest of your leave time and go home to your family. Mourn her. Remember the good."

It was good advice. Steady advice. The best condolences that could be given an officer in this sort of horrible situation. Tydon knew he should take it, should do as the Captain said. But those damn civilian shoes on his feet wouldn't get with the program. The traitors stayed rooted on the floor as if they were melded with the durasteel beneath them. And if that wasn't enough to make him want to blast the things out the nearest airlock, his legs and feet apparently signed on with this private little rebellion and Tydon found himself rising to full military attention.

He opened his mouth, and couldn't stop the words. "Then I ask, as an officer of the Imperial Navy, for my right to see my deceased family member."

Kand frowned again, rising to his feet. "Tydon—"

"It's my right as a citizen of the Empire," Tydon continued before he lost his nerve. "I will not make demands of an Imperial Captain on his own ship. This is a request, respectfully and humbly, that I be allowed to see my sister's remains before they are taken away. Regulation 8956.3 stipulates that this is permitted."

"I know the regulations, Tydon," Kand sighed resignedly, flicking a glance over at Friel. "Is he always like this?"

"Stubborn to a fault and loyal to the extreme, sir? Yes," Friel answered, a sad smile on his lips. "His record shows this, and I personally speak to his blatant stupidity in this matter. But he's right, Captain. Any officer worth his rank would want the same thing."

"And you recommend granting this request."

"I do, sir."

"I take it you also have an equally blatant and stupid plan to get the Commander in and out of the detention block unnoticed?"

The smile on Friel's lips took a turn for the darker. "I do, sir."

"Stars save me from brilliant and bloody foolish friendships," Kand muttered, waving a hand dismissively. "Fine. According to Lieutenant Commander Gant, the girl is harmless anyway. You get as long as he gives you, Tydon, no more. And then I want you off my ship. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then get moving, Tydon. Friel, hang back a moment. We have something to discuss."

* * *

Gant stared at his computer screen in a sort of muted horror. Everything on seven of his eight prisoners was gone. Every scrap of data. Every recording. Every still frame picture. Gone. Wiped out of memory. The droids he'd used in his interrogations of those specific prisoners were gone. It was as if the past four days of his life had not existed, duty-wise. It was as if those eight prisoners had never existed on the _Peremptory_, either. Even the cells that contained the prisoners were empty and sanitized. Not a cell of DNA remained to mark the existence of Prisoners One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six and Eight.

All save for Prisoner Seven.

She was still there. Renate Tydon, also known as the rebel Renet Camlyn, was probably asleep in her cell. Blissfully unaware of the fact that the rest of her compatriots were probably dead.

Gant drummed his fingers on the console, his mind turning over the facts his eyes refused to acknowledge. This wasn't a computer glitch, that was for damn certain. This was neatly done, precisely done. And reeked to Imperial Center and back of ISB involvement. The Imperial Security Bureau was the nastiest of branches in the Empire's military. They were supposed to root out corruption from within, sometimes stooping to unspeakable levels to get what they wanted. And when rules kept them from employing their dirty tactics, they simply made new rules to accommodate said tactics.

Nasty wasn't a harsh enough word to describe the ISB. And ever since the destruction of the Death Star, ISB had been on a rebel hunt within the Fleet itself like fleas on a bantha.

If ISB had figured out Renet's connection to Tydon…

He discounted that one right away. If they had, they wouldn't have terminated all the other prisoners and wiped any trace of them from the _Peremptory_. No, Renet would have been the prisoner missing when he came in to begin his shift. Renet's cell would have been empty and sanitized, her record removed from the data banks. One of the others must have known something, said something that had slipped over Gant's head. Something noteworthy enough to make it into his reports but not something he understood himself. But why take the rest of Renet's rebel comrades and leave her behind?

It made no sense, and that pissed him off the most. And sent alarm bells screaming his head.

Gant took in a deep breath, letting it out his nose, and set his mind to piecing together what he did know of the situation. ISB definitely had a hand in this, but it couldn't be their operation. At least not completely. If there had been an ISB Jedi-hunt on the Peremptory, there would have been more… fear involved, he supposed was the best word. ISB was known for digging up what dirt they wanted, and hen making a very public display of what they did find and what they did to the unfortunate recipient of their digging.

This was too quite to be a solo ISB op. But if not them, then who? Who in the Empire had the power to do this, to order around the ISB of all people?

He wasn't certain he wanted an answer to that one.

"Ensign Maher," he called, turning around in his seat. "I need a scan on…" He trailed off as he realized it wasn't Ensign Maher seated at the station behind him. This man was new, completely unknown to him. "Where's Maher?"

"I'm Ensign Dovale, sir," the man introduced himself, sounding slightly confused. "It was my understanding that Ensign Maher transferred off the ship last night when I arrived. Is there something I can do for you, sir?"

The alarm bells that had started to ring in the back of Gant's mind tolled louder. "No," he said easily, smiling that charming smile that put people at ease, that made him good at his job. "My mistake, Dovale. Too much drink last night has me forgetting. Glad to have you on the team."

Dovale nodded, smiling in return. "Thank you, sir. We received a report while you were off shift. We're to meet the _Executor_ outside the Kathol Sector and perform a prisoner exchange." He said, handing Gant a data pad.

"Prisoner exchange," he echoed carefully, putting in the right amount of bored interest in his tone. Noticing for the first time that he did not know _any _of the officers on duty at the moment. "We have any details yet on what we're getting?"

"No, sir. If I may be so bold as to say, I hope we won't take on a single one. I've had my fill of rebel interrogations on the _Chimaera_."

Gant forced a laugh he didn't feel. "I can imagine. I hear the _Chimaera'_s seen its fair share of war duty."

"More than its fair share, honestly," Dovale frowned. "Rumor has it that the _Chimaera's_ making a bid to become part of the Death Squadron."

Gant whistled between his teeth. "It's the fast line to promotion that way."

"Or death," Dovale said quietly, taking a furtive glances around the security station. "I don't think I'm quite ready to be under Lord Vader's direct command, sir. It's why I asked for this assignment when it came up."

Again, Gant filled his voice with polite and bored interest. "Oh yeah? How long ago was that?"

"Three days, sir."

The alarms in his head ceased abruptly, and the silence left in their wake was more frightening than the ringing. Three days. It was three days ago that Renet drew that picture of a lake house on Naboo, sketched it so well that Gant felt he could reach through it to touch the wood beams and feel the greenery that climbed up its columns. He'd sent the picture to Intelligence, expecting a reprimand or at least a scolding from the commander of that section. A picture that could exist on a million different worlds wasn't exactly a solid lead. But apparently it had been.

So much of a lead that it had caused the deaths of seven people and the transfers of at least five officers.

He flicked a glance down the hallway that contained the holding cells. _Stars, Renet, what have you stumbled into? What have you dragged _me _into?_

"Glad to have you on board," Gant said again, fighting back the need to swallow hard. He handed the pad back to him. "If we are doing a prisoner transfer with the _Executor_, we better be prepared. Run a complete diagnostic on all the cells and the droids. Its tedious work, Dovale, but it will get you familiar with the way we run things on the _Peremptory._ When we're neck deep in prisoners and the brass is screaming down our necks for information, you'll be glad that you did it. Take anyone else that transferred in with you. It'll make it go quicker."

"Yes, sir," Dovale answered and headed off to follow his orders.

Gant waited until the room was empty before letting his panic show. He pressed a shaking hand to his eyes, rubbing them vigorously. He wasn't an idiot. He knew damn well that the _Executor_ meant one thing and one thing only—Lord Vader. And if they were performing a prisoner transfer, that meant Renet was going to pay for her crimes ahead of his schedule. He keyed for a scan of her cell—

—and found it blocked.

No video. No audio. Nothing he could do could unlock that damn door, either. And yet he made that walk down that hall, standing before it, gloved hand pressed uselessly against the thick durasteel. She was behind it still, or at least he hoped she was. There was no way to tell. And even if she was, she might as well have been half a galaxy away for all his ability to get to her. The hand balled into a fist, bounced without real effort against that slab of offending metal.

"I'm sorry, Renet," he whispered. "I'm really and truly sorry. But you'll get your wish now. It'll all be over soon."

He kept staring at the door, wondering what she would think of in her final moments. Wondering if she'd think of him fondly or as one of the monsters that hurt her. And wondering why it mattered so much to him.

Wondering and fearing, for her and himself and all the people suddenly gone for him his slice of the _Peremptory_ that he scarcely heard the approaching steps of a stormtrooper. Straightening, he pushed his thoughts back into the dark hole they'd crawled out of, staring into the eye sockets of the standard white armored helmet. "Yes?"

"I need to see the prisoner in this cell," came the filtered voice.

_Don't we all…_ "I'm afraid she's sealed away under authority higher than yours or mine, stormtrooper. Unless you have executive orders, you aren't going to receive access."

His second surprise of the day was watching the trooper defy protocol and undo the seals around his helmet. The thing popped off, revealing a familiar face. "I think I have all the orders I need, officer," Commander Tydon said firmly. "Now stand aside, please."

Gant did as was ordered, watching as Tydon passed a code cylinder over the lock. After a moment, the door lifted and a figure stirred on the padded shelf. "Avery?" Renet whispered.

"No," her brother answered, the voice so strong and dipped in command a moment ago now thick with suppressed emotion. "Not Avery, Renet. It's Nathon…"

Gant let the door close, his final glimpse before steel cut them from view was white armored arms crushing her to his chest, her arms around his neck. Her sobs just as loud as her brother's…

* * *

"How long as he been in there?" Friel asked quietly.

"Not long enough," Gant replied, staring at the blank screen that represented Renet's cell. Trying to hold back the raging anger in his blood. "Was anyone ever going to tell me?"

Friel had the gall to shrug. "I just found out about it myself, Lieutenant."

Gant lifted his eyes from the screen, glaring at the other man. Wondering idly what that noncommittal statement meant. Was Friel referring to Renet's transfer, to Tydon's unauthorized presence here, or the transfer of ALL of Gant's staff? Wondering more than idly if Friel would be so gracious as to accept a one-two punch to the jaw. The bastard had certainly earned t.

"Yes, sir," he ground out.

That had Friel turning, eyes brimming with annoyance. As if he, too, were spoiling for a fight. "I detect a tone of disrespect in your voice, Lieutenant. I have about as much control over this situation as you. Except I follow my orders and my protocols and I do _not_ let my personal feelings come into play. Period."

It was a reprimand, an informal one, and a warning. And Gant just couldn't let it go. "My whole department has been replaced overnight—_literally_, sir. I'm the last one remaining that knows anything about these prisoners. I have a right to know what is going on."

"A right? Possibly," Friel answered coldly. "An obligation to uphold your sworn oath and follow your chain of command? That you have in spades, Lieutenant. Your upset over the situation is noted and understandable. However, you will comport yourself properly and trust in your superiors. Am I making myself clear?"

"Crystal, sir," Gant replied just as coolly. "Under my oaths and obligations, I hereby put in my request for a transfer."

"Denied."

Gant gaped at him. "Sir, you do not have the—"

"I have every right, Lieutenant, considering your recent promotion."

Now _that_ took him aback. "My what, sir?"

"Recent promotion," Friel repeated, more slowly and with a touch more heat. "You are hereby promoted to the rank of Commander, effective immediately. The entirety of the _Peremptory's _detention block is yours, every shift and every officer on it. Every prisoner is your responsibility. Congratulations."

Gant rose to his feet, glaring openly at the other man. "Why does this feel less like good news and more like I'm being given an empty honor to keep my mouth shut about what I know?"

Friel actually huffed out a bitter laugh. "If I am to hazard a guess, I would say because you aren't an idiot? Now prove that you aren't too smart for your own good and take the promotion. Let this go. They're all dead now anyway. Don't let your career follow them to the grave."

"Which 'they,' sir?" Gant hissed angrily. "The prisoners or my former team?"

Friel didn't answer. Gant watched the Commander's eyes turn towards the hall, to the door that shielded brother and sister and their painful reunion from view. And something in Gant snapped.

"I resign, sir. Effective immediately."

Friel turned swiftly. "You… what?"

"Resign, sir," Gant enunciated slowly and with heat just as Friel had done. "This isn't what I signed up for when I joined the Imperial Fleet."

"As I recall, your fleet record indicated you willingly took this assignment, Commander."

Gant shook his head. "I agreed to perform interrogations on enemies of the Empire. That—" he pointed severely down the corridor, at the door they both knew. "That isn't an enemy. That is a grown man, a man I have respected since serving under, sobbing his eyes out like a boy because our orders say we have to literally rip his baby sister from his arms and kill her. That is a girl that made a bad decision, that did not kill or hurt anyone, and that is going to die for reasons we can't explain to her because _we_ don't know ourselves. I say again, this is not the Empire I signed up to defend."

"Commander—"

"My name is Avery Gant and will not be bought and sold like cattle," he bit out, pulling his rank bar off his uniform and slamming it down on the console. "I accept a dishonorable discharge for this. I accept prison time for disserting or whatever else you want to hand to me, sir. But I don't accept what's going on before my eyes, and I won't."

He turned his back on Friel, the final insult he could hurl at the man without physical confrontation. And he waited for the usual reaction to such a move, the reaction that came from men of all types regardless of affiliation in this war. Friel's hand landed hard on his shoulder as expected, and Gant spun, fist connecting solidly with the other man's jaw. Once for being handed a joke of a promotion in exchange for his silence over what he considered the worst abuse of power ever known. And twice for the brother and sister about to lose each other for the stupidest of reasons.

Over a picture of a lake house on a distant planet of all things! A picture Gant, himself, had asked her to draw.

Friel went down, his hand clenching Gant's shoulder and taking him down as well. Friel rolled to one side and Gant to the other, the former spitting blood, the latter ready to defend himself.

"I deserved that," Friel muttered, spitting blood onto the deck. "So I won't write you up for it. Officially, I'll say I let a prisoner get out of control. It was my fault."

Gant looked at him askance, not trusting anything anymore. "Why?"

"Because you're right on all accounts."

"Then why are you letting this happen?"

"Because I also love the Empire, Gant. I love what it stands for if not all of its practices. And I have to have faith that our Empire isn't going to let Renet die."

"You know something," Gant said slowly. "You know something or you wouldn't have this kind of faith. What do you know? Tell me."

"You don't want the answer to that," Friel said, climbing to his feet and pulling a handkerchief from his sleeve, dabbing at the blood on his lips. "Trust me, Gant. Just take the promotion and let it go."

"What happened to my team?"

"Gant, once you start down this road—"

"What. happened. to. my. team!"

"Kriff it all, you'll dig until you find out anyway," Friel swore. "Lord Vader had everyone assigned to this unit of rebels transferred to the _Executor_, under his direct command. I don't know what happened after they left the _Peremptory_. I'm assuming they made it to their new posts and are settling in right now."

"And me? Why am I still here?"

"Because Captain Kand and I put up a fight over you," Friel said bluntly. "You've proven your talent and loyalty, Gant. And because it was the only thing we could do _within_ the rules to protest what's happening here. No, we don't like it. And yes, there is something going on above our collective pay grades. Renet either knows something she doesn't realize she knows, or she accidently stepped into a political sandstorm. Either way, Captain Kand cashed in all his political currency to keep you here, so there's no way I'm going to watch you walk away. You're staying, so put your kriffing rank bar back in place."

Gant didn't so much as move a muscle. "What about rebel prisoners under my care?"

"Dead. Executed four hours before your shift began and their bodies disintegrated."

"Their records?"

"ISB took care of that. Just as they oversaw the transfer of your old team off this ship and your new one on it."

Gant climbed to his feet and picked up his uniform cap, shoving his hands through his hair before settling the thing back in place. Staring down at his rank bar. "Stars, Friel. What is going on? What the kriff is going on?"

"You know as much as I do now, for all the good it will do you," Friel answered. "And if you tell a soul I told you, I'll call you a damn liar at both our court-martials. Then I'll request permission to shoot you myself before I'm executed for treason. Am I clear? Now, I say again, put your rank bar back in place. How long before the rest of your team comes back?"

"Hours yet," Gant sighed, numbed hands pinning the bar back onto his uniform. "I sent them on a rather useless assignment."

"So you could figure out what was going on?"

"Sure, we'll call it that."

Friel winced as he smiled slightly. "Of course it had nothing to do with Renate Tydon."

"I'm not sorry for striking you, Commander, nor will I be sorry for striking you again if you so much as breathe that sentence one more time."

They settled back in silence, and when Captain Kand called down to check on their progress, both conveniently ignored the comm.


	7. Chapter 7 - Confrontations

A/N: Extra long chapter is long! That's what happens when Vader arrives. :) As always, thanks for the reviews and favorites and follows. Special shout out's to **Shaida01, m4x70r, Moar Please, lo,** and **Shadir **for all the wonderful reviews for the last few chapters.

As always, extra special thanks to m4x70r for allowing me to use the OC Nathon Tydon in this story. Please go read "To No Avail." It's worth the read. :)

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OCs. Please do not sue. This is purely for fun.

* * *

The _Executor_ loomed above them, a massive threatening shadow in the blackness of space. Captain Avel Kand stood on the bridge of his ship, watching as the seemingly endless array of stars was swallowed whole by the ominous behemoth that was the flagship of the Imperial Fleet. He'd seen this show many times in the years since the _Executor's_ commissioning, and to this day it never failed to chill his soul.

Before Yavin, he had been one of the most vocal against the creation of the Super Star Destroyer line of warships. With over twenty-five thousand Class I and Class II Star Destroyers currently active in the Fleet, not to mention the veritable plethora of smaller capital ships and escort frigates, the need for a hulking menace like the _Executor_ seemed a gross misuse of funds and materials. Worse, it seemed like bragging, like grandstanding. Like issuing a direct challenge to the galaxy. As if the Emperor wanted someone to rise up and oppose him, just so he could unleash the might of his creation.

Then the Battle of Yavin had occurred and the Death Star had been destroyed. Millions of lives lost in heartbeat. Millions of loyal Imperial officers and civilians alike just suddenly gone, removed from existence in the worst terrorist attack in recorded history.

It made his chest ache to think of it, his eyes tight. One of his daughters-in-law had perished on that station, leaving his middle son a grieving wreck and his grandchildren motherless. Abigail Kand had been a beautiful, gentle soul, an engineer with the talent to wrap gargantuan machines in aesthetically pleasing packages. Her work had been praised on Imperial Center, so much so that the Emperor, himself, had requested her aid in designing that superweapon.

She was gone now, her delicate light snuffed out in one terror and blood-soaked combat, and his galaxy was so much darker for it.

Kand pulled his mind back from the depths of memory, watching as the last star was eclipsed by the bulk of the _Executor_. In that darkness, he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the transparisteel viewport. Older now, so much older than the day he had stood witness as his son married Abigail. He was in his early sixties with silver hair and lined features, just beginning his middle years. But his back was still ramrod straight, his shoulders perfectly squared from over forty years of military service. His black eyes glittered with all the intelligence he had when he was just a cadet on his homeworld. Now tempered and battle forged with experience and wisdom.

He had seen the Clone Wars from start to finish, had watched the Old Republic crumble under the weight of its own decadent corruption. He had experienced the treacherous Jedi and their purging from the galaxy. He had lived through the destruction of the Death Star. And in the end, he had seen the rise of this new rebellion against the galaxy's peaceful existence.

War and death and loss. So much loss. A career—no, a _lifetime_ of it. Enough to crush a lesser man's spirit. Yet there he stood, the stars themselves blackened from view as he was about to see another bright young woman ripped away from the loving arms of her family. All because of a mistake and a secret. All because the galaxy was not yet finished rending itself in twain.

Abigail Kand… and soon Renate Tydon. Odd that this unknown, washed-out rag of a child would brand her name into his nightmares, into the chamber that housed his personal sorrows. But she had. And he wasn't quite sure what to make of that.

"I opposed them, in the beginning," he said aloud, watching as the reflection of his XO stepped into view. "The superstar destroyers, I opposed their creation. Quite vocally, I might add. It's probably the reason I don't wear Admiral's bars at present. I still dislike them, Friel, but I understand their purpose now."

"Yes, sir."

Kand smiled tightly, the expression bitter in his eyes. Of course Friel had no idea what he was going on about, answering as diplomatically as he could. The man was still young, and only now about to witness his first real loss. There, on the bridge of the ship he served with pride, he was about to carve his own chamber of sorrows from the meat of his heart. And inscribe the name Renate Tydon upon its walls.

"What of Commander Tydon?" Kand asked instead.

Friel held his gaze evenly through the dark viewport. "His shuttle departed before we left the Issor system, per your orders, sir."

The smile grew slightly, the bitter edge turning sardonic. "I see. Make certain that Commander Tydon remains hidden wherever it is you have stashed him, Friel. I dislike the idea of having to explain his presence to Lord Vader only slightly less than having to explain why Captain Ronoe's First Officer died by the Dark Lord's hand on my ship. Especially when I gave orders to send that man packing."

Friel never blinked, never betrayed a hint of whatever played behind his eyes. Instead, he stepped up to his captain, gazing into the infinite blackness that was the _Executor's_ superstructure. "It's like that thing has swallowed us whole."

"It could," Kand murmured in reply. "It's said that the main docking bay on the _Executor_ could hold a Class II Star Destroyer with room to spare."

"Why, sir?"

"Why did I oppose them?" Kand asked, glancing at Friel. Knowing damn well the other man wasn't talking about star destroyers or Kand's attitude towards them.

He was asking in his subtle way why he wasn't up on reprimand for disobeying orders, for keeping Tydon on the ship. Why Kand had fought so hard to keep Avery Gant on board instead of leaving him to the Lord Vader and ISB. He was asking why to a lot of things, a lot of things that Kand couldn't discuss even if he did have all the answers. Which he knew damn well that he didn't, and that irritated him all the more. Possibly the very reason that Renate's name was next to Abigail's, he mused darkly. One more light diminished in an every darkening universe.

"It was unnecessary," Kand replied, couching his words carefully. "Wasteful in my opinion. The fleet was able to stand on its own without the need to insert other ships into the line. Particularly ones that did not take the skill and abilities of its crew in mind when it ran off to perform secretive missions."

"I see," Friel said neutrally. "And what did your dissenting opinion cost you in the end, sir?"

Kand shrugged a shoulder fractionally. "Nothing, all said and done. I lack the proper breeding of a good Core world family to support my rise past this rank. I'm sorry to say, Commander, that the only way you will take command of the _Peremptory_ is literally over my dead body."

Friel laughed lowly, a self-depreciating sound. "Would it surprise you that now, of all times, I do not wish to rise above my station?"

Kand shook his head. "No, it wouldn't. But that will change over time, when the bitterness of this loss is a fading pain. You'll want a command of your own. You'll want to be able to ensure the things that hurt you in the past won't be able to hurt anyone else in the future."

They stood in silence a long while, each seeing their own demons, their own failures past and present, within the darkened shadow of the _Executor_. For the first time in months, Kand wished desperately to see the stars. The view that normally greeted his eyes, that he had come to take for granted, was like a song in the back of his mind, a song tainted by the presence of the _Executor _and all it represented. He wanted to see the stars again, and think fond thoughts about Abigail.

"We have a bet, Tydon and I," Friel said, breaking the silence. "We were rivals at the Academy and then all the way through our careers. The bet was over who would make Captain first."

Kand chuckled. "Given what I know of Ronoe, the two of you would have better odds wagering over who would be transferred to another ship, first. Ronoe's intent to retire peacefully is in the same vein as my own. It will never happen."

"No, sir. I believe the bet is invalid at this point, anyway."

"Thinking of retiring already?"

"Something like that, sir."

"It would be a waste, Commander, for both you and Tydon. That girl is sealed to her fate. She'll die for what she's done, or for what she knows. Killing your careers after the fact will not bring her back. Think about that, Luthar, before you two hatch whatever it is you have planned."

He watched Friel struggle with what he'd said, watched the realities of right and wrong settle across his shoulders. Shoulders that slumped under that weight. "I request a leave of absence, sir."

"Denied."

"In that case, I have suspended Commander Avery Gant for three weeks without pay."

That caused a raised eyebrow. "Why?"

"He struck me, twice, in the detention area three days ago. He was unreasonable. It was well within the regulations, sir."

"I see," Kand said slowly, the pieces of the puzzle starting to fall into place. "Strange, that I did not receive a report on this since then."

Again, Friel's face was perfectly neutral. "I may have misplaced the report, sir. You'll have it by the end of shift."

"And the reason why Commander Gant's suspension will start today instead of when the incident occurred?"

"I gave Commander Gant three days to cool off and apologize," he said without missing a beat. "He has yet to make that apology. His discipline will start as I have outlined."

"Stars, Luthar," Kand cursed softly. "Fine. See that I get that report immediately. And Commander?"

Friel turned back to his Captain. "Yes, sir?"

"You will stay at my side for the duration of Gant's suspension. That's a direct order. You will be highly visible, and your behavior better be above perfect," Kand said dangerously. "I may not understand what you have planned, or whatever possessed Ronoe to let his XO ricochet across the galaxy like a loose blaster bolt, but I understand very well my relationship with you. So help me, you won't follow him to ruin."

A tiny smile touched Friel's mouth. "Too valuable a member of your crew?"

Kand snorted. "Hardly. You are insubordinate, dangerous, and hot-tempered, Friel. I just hate breaking in new First Officers. It puts me in a bad mood. See to it that I don't have to, understood?"

"Yes, sir."

* * *

This was not how the plan was supposed to go, Gant reflected darkly as he stared down at the message across his terminal. The suspension had come as a surprise and yet somehow wasn't. Part of him knew better than to trust Friel, but the other part of him… well, it was his job to read people. And he was very good at that job. Something in the wording of the suspension wasn't quite right. Something that fairly screamed about political maneuvering. What was going on with the higher ranks of this blasted ship?

He shook his head, leaning back in his chair. Trying to breathe past the righteous swell of anger in his blood. He wasn't over what was going to happen to Renet. Nor was he over the blatant buying of his silence with a promotion. But neither was he an idiot. Friel had been right on the fact that something was going on way above their heads, some sort of game that treated lives like pawns on the Dejarik board. The question became whose hands were doing the maneuvering, and who else stood out as a piece on the game board.

He knew of himself, of Renet, of Tydon and Friel and now Captain Kand. A rebel, two commanders, and a Captain. He pursed his lips. There was enough brass on that field already to make him more than uncomfortable with the stakes. Which meant someone above a Star Destroyer Captain was playing this game and that meant a rear admiral at the very least. Gant shuddered at that thought. A rear admiral at the _least _could imply this game ran as high as the Grand Admiralty.

Maybe even the inner court of the Emperor, himself.

Stars above, what _had _that foolish girl discovered! What was so damn special about that Lake House on Naboo?

Gant didn't want to know. He really and truly didn't. But he wanted to be a pawn in someone's game even less. Maybe Friel and Kand were okay with being maneuvered against their will, maybe acceptance of that fate was a skill that came when you wore senior rank long enough. Gant was brand spanking new to the senior echelons of the Fleet, and he'd had yet to gain that thick skin against puppet masters.

He exhaled heavily, glancing down the ever familiar hallway to a very familiar door. Renet was still there, trapped behind that door for two days now. No food, no water. No company. Did she believe he'd abandoned her? Probably. If he was in her position, he would have believed it. And hadn't he, after a fashion? Tydon had used the Captain's personal code cylinder to open that door. No ship could ever be locked away from its Captain in any capacity. That included the prisoner cell doors.

But he'd let Tydon close and lock that door after his reunion with his sister. Tydon hadn't said a word as he slipped the stormtrooper helmet over his tear-streaked face and strode out of the detention area. All Gant had to do was stop the man, reach out a hand and stop him, and he could have asked for that code cylinder. He could have copied that code and…

And what? He asked himself harshly. Snuck in to see her? Brought her food? Assured her that everything was going to be okay?

He shook his head at his own stupidity. She was being "softened up" again for her journey to Lord Vader. Being denied food and water, and most likely having her sleep interrupted by shocks or changes in temperature or loud noises. Leaving her utterly unstable and weak of mind so the real interrogators could go to work on her without delay. It was a tactic he had employed time and again to break the more jaded criminals brought to him. Why would they treat Renet any different? Especially if they thought she knew something important enough to bring the Dark Lord, himself, halfway across the galaxy to meet them.

No, anything he could have provided her would have made things worse in the end. On some level he must have known that. It was the only reason he could think of that would cause him to let Tydon walk away with that code cylinder without so much as a half-hearted protest.

The kid deserved better than to die at the whim of some high ranking bureaucrat.

He didn't look up when the lift doors parted, at least not at first. It was the silence that filled the room that made him glance at the door, and that harsh electronic inhalation of breath. Gant was on his feet in an eye blink. "Lord Vader," he said quickly, snapping to painful attention.

The man before him was a nightmare made tangible. Seven feet of black-clad machine and man, and the waves of pure terror that radiated from him was enough to drain all the color from his face. Yet, like when facing off with Friel those two days ago, something in him snapped. Something that had him taking a step forward again. One of his questions at least had an answer.

This man was here for Renet. This man would be the last thing she saw before she died. And most likely he would be the last thing she thought of as well. He felt his lip twist, not in anger. Not in terror. Not even in disgust. But in irony. _So you are on one side of the Dejarik board, my lord. At least I get to meet my puppet master face to face. The question is, who is on the other side? Who do you play against, Lord Vader? Or are you merely a pawn on the same board?_

That helmeted head swung towards him, the massive man stopping in mid step. And lifted a black-gauntleted hand towards him. Gant's eyes widened and his hands flew automatically to his throat, clawing at whatever invisible cord had wrapped around his neck. He had heard the stories, the rumors of what power the Lord Vader possessed. Like most of the Fleet, Gant had given most of those stories over to wild conjecture and exaggeration. Surely all the Jedi were dead, taking with them the secrets of the Force. And their Dark Lord wasn't a Jedi. It shouldn't be possible—

Gant gurgled, his feet literally lifted off the deck, pulling him over the console and across the room. His boots dangled above the floor as Lord Vader lifted him to eye level.

"You are the one," Vader rumbled. "You conducted the interviews and discovered the clue. You have my thanks, Commander. For that alone, you get to live. Do not mistake my gratitude for leniency, however, and keep your inane questions to yourself."

The invisible hand vanished just as quickly as it arrived, dropping Gant to the deck. He lay there gasping as the heavy booted feet of the Dark Lord of the Sith traveled down the hallway. Towards _the_ door. Through black spots in his vision, Gant saw the door rise, and he swore he heard that thin sad voice speak.

"Avery?"

He scrambled against the deck, trying to get his feet under him. Trying to run to that door. Trying to call out. He had a rapport with her. He could get her to tell Lord Vader anything. It wasn't necessary to do this to her. It wasn't needed. He could—

There wasn't sufficient breath left in him to say any of that out loud, and the huge ragged gulps he pulled in weren't fast enough to replenish his body. He couldn't get his limbs moving properly, couldn't manage to crawl across the floor. The next sound he heard was a scream, a hysterical, wild, heart shattering scream. A scream that was cut short when the door to her cell lowered and the lock clicked into place.

* * *

_Peace is a lie, there is only passion.  
__Through passion, I gain strength.  
__Through strength, I gain power.  
__Through power, I gain victory.  
__Through victory, my chains are broken.  
__The Force shall free me._

Lord Vader recited the code unconsciously, the words burning up his brain like a fever. He needed it, clung to the recitation as an old pain rose to the forefront of his mind. A pain he had thought long buried, forgotten with the past he did not wish to acknowledge. But arise it did, swirling from that pit of loathing to which he'd banished all that had been Anakin Skywalker. All that had been Pad—

No. He refused to let _that_ name rise.

He stared down at the unconscious form before him, battling ghosts that had not risen in decades from their shallow graves in his heart. She was barely breathing, this rebel child, her eyes open but unseeing. Minutes away from death if he did not call for a medical droid. Yet her mind… it was still active, his mental fist wrapped around it, squeezing and caressing at alternate intervals. She knew of the Lake House, and the secret marriage that had transpired therein.

As if naming the place was a verbal key, those ghosts unlocked the last of their chains, and he was helpless as the memories overtook his reality.

"_I love you", she whispered._

_Anakin's heart stopped, lost a beat. He was fairly certain that he was hallucinating, that he had taken a mortal blow somewhere along the line and was finally succumbing to it. And still, he couldn't help but respond, to hope against hope that this dream was a reality. _

"_You love me? I thought we had decided not to fall in love. That we'd be forced to live a lie and that it would destroy our lives."_

"_I think our lives are about to be destroyed anyway," Padme leaned in, closing that final aching distance between them. "I truly… deeply… love you. And before we die I want you to know."_

_Their lips met, there in that tunnel, chained to a chariot that was to deliver them to their deaths. In that moment, it was the greatest place in the galaxy. The only place, the only moment, in which he wanted to spend his eternity…_

Sorrow and grief and guilt spewed from those now empty graves like a fountain, drowning him. Forcing him to take a step backward, to steady himself against the wall of that cell. To feel the gears and metal attached to the stumps of his arms. Stumps that would have ended in flesh and bone if not for the betrayals. One after another after another, culminating in the twisted thing that he was now. The Jedi Council, Obi-wan, and finally his beautiful Padme. All had done this to him. All had destroyed him.

The rage returned, the Force begging to be used. He did not think of these things, of these memories that felt as if they belonged to a different man. Anakin was dead. He was Vader now, and Vader despised Anakin's wife for her weakness, her inability to accept the changes that were necessary to bring order to the galaxy. He hated her for her betrayal, cursed her insipid short-sightedness for bringing Obi-wan to Mustafar. For trapping him in his living hell, suspended forever in that moment between life and death.

In constant agony, both of the flesh and of the soul.

He had killed her for the betrayal... or so he had been lead to believe. The evidence of his son's existence spoke volumes to that lie. He had _not _killed his wife. She had lived. And this girl, this pitifully weak wisp of a girl, was a key to finding out the truth of who had _truly_ betrayed him.

Vader stared down at the dying girl, an odd curiosity he hadn't felt in decades swimming through his thoughts. In the end, she had given him what he wished for willingly… because she was protecting someone else. Not the rebellion, of course. She had been a half-wit, a simple child seduced into joining that rabble. Yet in the course of her interrogation, in her pain and horror, she had found strength. Passion of a sort. She had put up walls in her mind to protect the things she loved, had fought him wildly and threw her pain at him like a weapon.

It wasn't enough. He'd found what she tried so hard to protect.

A brother. She had a brother that was highly placed in the Empire. But the name… the name escaped him. She had lost consciousness before he'd found that name, encouraging him to hurt her. Taken the pain he had given her and used it to build her defenses.

Admirable. Impressive. A trick he often used in the earlier stages of his life in this mechanical prison that kept him breathing. The pain was his constant companion now, a lover that never left. A fuel to the passions that kept the Dark Side flowing in him. It was a shame she could not touch the Force, he found himself lamenting. With a technique like this, she could have been strong indeed.

Her life flickered in the Force, a candle flame guttering to an end, throwing off its final sparks. He lifted his hand. "Live."

The Dark Side wrapped around her like a fog, sliding into her eyes and down her parted lips. She convulsed, spine bending upward until only the top of her head and the heels of her feet touched the deck. And she shrieked, a soundless wail of torment as the Dark Side raged through her. The healing lasted mere seconds, but he knew first hand that it felt like forever. She slammed back against the deck, coughing and sputtering. Sobbing as she curled in on herself.

He turned on his heel, striding out of her cell. Wondering why he had bothered to save her life. She did not resemble Padme at all, and while her mental defenses would be interesting to break down once she was fully healed, it wasn't enough justification. Perhaps it was the fact that she had held something back from him, a trick that was rarely successful. Perhaps it was the loyalty she displayed to her brother…

Yes, something about a brother… it reminded him of his son of all things. A brother… a sister… He was close to the answer, yet it flitted away like smoke in his grasp. But he now had the clues. Something about his son and the Lake House on Naboo. The place he had married—

"Have the girl treated for her injuries," he ordered, pausing only briefly to glance at the man he had nearly killed upon entry. "As soon as she is stable enough, she is to be transported to the _Executor_."

"My Lord," Gant said. "I have a rapport with the girl. She will tell me anything—"

"I have everything I need from her, Commander. Do as you are told."

"Lord Vader, if you have everything you need from her, why take her?"

Why, indeed. It was a very good question, and one he could only blame on the will of the Force. He turned back to Gant, saw the man brace for a second fight. Also impressive. Normally it only took once for a man to get out of his way. This Gant did not stand on pride or anger. Nor even out of love for the girl, now that he probed his mind. No, he stood also out of loyalty, to the Empire and to his… promise to the prisoner.

A promise to see that she lived, that she was punished with the proper severity for her crimes. And that punishment did not include death. But it did include…

"She is of use to me, Commander. That is all you need know. When I am finished with her, I will honor your promise. She will be sent to a rehabilitation center of my choosing. Now do as you are ordered."

Gant waited until the door had closed on the lift before running full tilt towards Renet's cell. She lay on the floor, crumbled and broken, eyes unfocused and unblinking. But she was breathing. Thank all the stars, she still drew breath.

"Renet?" he asked, kneeing down beside her, stripping off his gloves. He brushed back her hair, trying not to flinch when she whimpered and tried to pull away. Shssssh, Renet. It's okay now. It's Avery. It's going to be okay now. You, call for a full medic now!" he hissed when Ensign Dovale poked his head into the cell.

"Yes, sir!"

Gant pulled Renet into his lap, held her arms down as she flailed helpless against the things only seen in her mind. And kept telling her it was going to be alright. Though he wasn't sure who he was reassuring in that moment, her or himself.


	8. Chapter 8 - Departures

A/N: Thanks again for everyone that has read, reviewed, favorited and followed this story! Special shout out to **Shadir** and **Admiral Mitth'raw'nuruodo **for the lovely reviews to the last chapter. They help in more ways than I can state. :)

As always, special thanks to **m4x70r** for the use of Nathon Tydon from the story "To No Avail." Please go and read it. It's wonderful. :)

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OCs. Please do not sue. This is purely for fun!

* * *

With a flicker of pseudo-motion, the _Executor _jumped into hyperspace. On the bridge of the _Peremptory_, a silent collective sigh of relief seemed to permeate the air. The silence was short-lived, and it seemed that for the first time in days, the hum of bridge activity returned to normal levels. Many were unaware of it, this change in demeanor and activity, however Captain Kand knew very well the reason for the shift in activity level. When Darth Vader was on the deck, everyone from the lowest of Crewman to the ship's Captain moved only when necessary, spoke only when necessary.

And secretly wished not to be noticed by the Dark Lord of the Sith.

A pall had settled over his ship when the Lord Vader had first arrived, fear blanketing the normally stern atmosphere of his ship. Captain Kand wasn't one that did well with lax duties and lazy officers on a normal basis, and as such had garnered a reputation for being a severe task master on his ship. However, his normal whip-crack crew had taken that to higher levels during Darth Vader's inspection. So much so that he feared a few would break under the added strain.

No one had, thank the stars. And he made a mental note to put the ship into dock for "repairs" at the first opportunity. It would give his crew a much needed and deserved break for a week or so, a reward for performing above and beyond demanded levels.

"Transfers were completed without incident," Commander Friel announced from the station next to Kand. "One pr—one prisoner transferred to the _Executor_ without incident, sir. We took on sixteen. Orders have arrived for standard interrogation."

He hadn't missed the slight hitch in his First Officer's voice, knowing that the prisoner transferred to the _Executor _was that blasted Tydon girl. Knowing that the girl was a like a sister to Friel did nothing to soften Kand's opinion of her. Thanks to that child, he had harbored an officer that was, for all intents and purposes if not by the letter of the law going rogue, had ISB sweep into his detention block and help themselves to all the data, crewers, and prisoners they wished without so much as a by-your-leave-captain, and Lord Vader, himself, terrifying his crew.

And then there was the return of the nightmares about Abigail, about how she cried for his aid when the Death Star burned. How her skin had crisped and fried from the fires before she felt every bit of liquid in her body turn to ice in the vacuum of space. The suffocation, the abject mental horror that such a death brought before her life ended… No, he would not shed a tear for that girl's fate, even if her name was now embedded in his heart. Out of respect for his First Officer, however, he would refrain from publically dance a jig at her execution.

Regardless of what anyone else had said, Renate Tydon was a rebel through and through in his mind. Like the ones that had destroyed the Death Star. Like the ones that had murdered Abigail…

"Very good," Kand said aloud, turning from his own station to read the orders for himself. "These prisoners, do we have any data on them?"

"Some, sir. Ten of the sixteen are known Rebels recently captured trying to enter the Candoras sector. The other six were picked up here and there in systems the _Executor_ happened to be passing through."

Kand frowned. "There isn't much in the Candoras sector that would attract attention of anything save for spacers, pirates, smugglers and other unsavory types. It's far out in the Outer Rim territories, if memory serves, too far removed from the fighting to offer much for the Rebellion. Outside of the Poln system, I see no value to that section of space."

Friel nodded. "The Poln system was once heavy in the mining industry, but has sense gone dry of any useful material. Though beneath its surface, it's said to be a veritable maze of tunnels and warrens that span the entire planet. "

"Leftovers from the mining days, no doubt."

"Yes, sir."

"Still," Kand said thoughtfully, crossing his arms over his chest. "If the rebels were heading to the Poln system, it might be worth a look. Do you see any harm in our schedule if we swing by the system?"

"Interesting that you would suggest that, sir, as our orders are to do exactly that," Friel said, handing over a data pad.

"Really," Kand murmured, continuing to read over the information. His eyebrows rose by the time he reached the end. "Grand Admiral Thrawn requested our presence?"

"I read it to be more a request of whomever received the honor of interrogating those prisoners. He left instructions as how to contact him once we reach the system, _if _we have anything of interest to report."

Kand's lips twitched into a bit of a smile, a dry one. "When a Grand Admiral asks a Star Destroyer to head into a useless system with a payload full of prisoners, and then leaves instructions as to how to interrupt whatever he has going on, he expects us to do exactly that—_with _information, not _if_. Who is it that has taken Commander Gant's place when he is suspended?"

Friel grimaced, flipping through the order log. "Lieutenant Commander Sephoran Kittinger, sir, one of the new transfers from the _Executor_."

Kand instantly shook his head. "No, put Commander Gant back on this assignment. We are going to meet with a Grand Admiral. I don't believe for a second that Grand Admiral Thrawn is as 'out of favor' with His Majesty as the rumor mill seems to persist in stating. And I won't face a man in white with less than my best crew at my disposal."

Friel did more than grimace at that. He went white. "Sir, Commander Gant is no longer on the _Peremptory_. I do not expect him back until his discipline is complete."

"And just how long is that going to take, Commander?"

"Three weeks, sir."

Kand's eyebrows drew down dangerously. "Isn't it just fascinating that that is the exact amount of time Commander Tydon has left on his leave."

"Yes, sir."

"And I shouldn't find it odd in the slightest that Commander Gant was reported as having an altercation with the Lord Vader—while suspended, I might add—over the transfer of that thrice damned Prisoner Seven to the _Executor_?"

Friel had the decency to blanch—hard. "It is a remarkable coincidence, sir."

"And I am to assume that, as part of his punishment, Commander Gant was to escort Commander Tydon back to his ship." That wasn't a question, nor was the seething anger whispering through Kand's voice.

"I did see that as an accurate use of the Commander's time, yes. After the altercation with Lord Vader, I felt it prudent that Commander Gant remove himself from the ship at the first available opportunity. I was unaware that Commander Tydon's pilot had come down with a case of lung worms before we left to meet the _Executor_. His stay was prolonged until we left hyperspace and per your orders, I had him off your ship at the first opportunity."

"I am not happy with this, Luthar," Kand said bitterly, stepping up almost nose to nose with Friel. "I am going to assume, for your sake, that all of this is on record and above board. Otherwise, I will take personal satisfaction in having you demoted and incarcerated until I can figure out a suitable punishment for you. This better not splash back on this ship, or it will be your head rolling—not mine. Are we clear?"

"Yes, sir. Everything is documented appropriately and per regulations."

"Then get us moving," he snapped. "We do not want to test the patience of a Grand Admiral."

"Yes, sir. Helm!" Friel called, heading down the command walkway just a touch too quickly. As if needing to put some distance between himself and the thunderstorm that was his Captain. "Set course for the Poln system, Candoras sector."

"Yes, sir," came the response.

"Good," Kand breathed, the anger slowly dissipating from his tone. "I hope this Kittinger is intimately familiar with the prisoners already. At standard speeds, we should reach the Poln system in a week. By that time, we had better have answers for the Admiral."

* * *

"They're gone," Gant said quietly, watching as the _Peremptory_ made its jump to lightspeed. Beside him in the co-pilot's seat, Tydon shifted slightly. Evidence of his own discomfort with what they were about to do. "You sure you want to do this?"

"No," Tydon said bluntly, pinning Gant with unfriendly eyes. "But I don't have much of a choice."

"We, you mean," Gant replied with the same tone. "We don't have a choice."

"She's not your sister, Gant. It's not your career or your life on the line if you don't figure out what's so important about that house on Naboo."

Gant ground his teeth, punching in the coordinates for Tatooine into the nav computer of the shuttle. "I will beg to differ, Tydon. I'm tied to this just as much as you are now. Renet was my prisoner. I discovered what she knew. And I'm the last of my team that even knew she existed. She may not be my sister, but those men were mine. I don't know if they are alive or dead right now. So I think I have as much at stake in this as you."

Tydon fell silent at that, and Gant could feel the other's eyes on him, weighing and measuring. He pushed off the need to roll his shoulders under that scrutiny. He and Tydon may have shared the same rank, but there was a … heaviness to Tydon's stare that spoke of experience and trial under fire. Experience that separated their ranks as clearly as the gap between Ensign and Captain. Gant may carry similar authority now, but he was lightyears behind Tydon. And he knew it.

Apparently so did Tydon.

"Okay," the other said at last. "Okay, but you follow my lead, Gant. We make decisions together, but I have the final say."

"As long as we get answers, Tydon, I don't care who gets the glory for this."

Tydon's mouth twisted. "There isn't going to be any glory," he said, sounding tired all of a sudden. "Just answers. And perhaps an execution when I get my hands on that bastard that twisted Renet's mind. That will have to suffice instead of glory."

"Nathon," Gant put in, watching the other twist sharply in his seat at the use of his first name.

Allegedly, even during an unauthorized, covert, career-ending mission (if they were caught), they were still under the social stigma that prevented the use of first names. Gant's expression hardened. Kriff that. If they were going to possibly die together, they were going to use first bloody names.

"Nathon," Gant said again, putting emphasis on the name. "You need to prepare yourself for the answers to those questions. And the fact that Renet may truly be a rebel."

Tydon's face nearly turned to stone. "What makes you say that?"

"I was the one in charge of her interrogation," Gant said. "I tested her reactions, the truth in her words, and everything in between. She may have been seduced by Vrad Dodonna, but the seduction wasn't completely on his part. She believed a lot of what she was saying, and only when the reality that she was going to have to pay for her crimes sank in, did she show real remorse."

"And just what do you mean by that, Avery?" The other growled, the threat of violence brimming in the air.

"Just what I said," he countered evenly. "It's my professional opinion that if Renet Cal—Renate Tydon was released right now, she'd go back to the rebellion with open arms."

"Of course she would," Tydon shook his head, turning back to the control board. "After what happened to her at your hands, after what she suffered… It's not a small leap of logic to see that she would run right back to those that professed to love her."

Gant opened his mouth, stunned at the blatant denial in Tydon's words. While it was true that no one wanted to learn that their loved one was on the wrong side of the war, still this was a bit much. And unbecoming of an officer, if Gant would say so himself. Gant closed his mouth, took a deep breath. No, that statement had been unbecoming of him to say of Tydon. The man was obviously grieving, torn asunder by what his sister had done. Gant, himself, had fallen into that same emotional trap, going so far as to argue—argue!—with the Lord Vader of all people over her fate.

He reached a hand to his throat, suppressing a shiver. He could still feel that invisible vice-like grip, crushing the life out of him. Even when it was happening, he knew he was a damn fool for defending Renet. He knew it just as he was certain Tydon knew in his heart that his baby sister was filthy rebel. He just couldn't bring himself to say it out loud any more than Gant could have stopped the verbal vomit of words he'd spat at the Dark Lord.

Gant didn't like it, but he could understand Tydon's position.

"You could be right," he forced himself to say, knowing they both knew the truth. "There's a chance that she was wholly innocent in this."

"Which is why we have to get to Naboo," Tydon muttered, voice thick with pain. "We have to discover the truth."

"After Tatooine," Gant reminded him. "There's something going on there that we need to discover. It has to do with Renet and with what happened to my men. I just know it."

He watched Tydon struggle with that, battling the desire to clear his sister's name immediately with the logical steps that were needed to take to get to that point. In the end he nodded. "Fine. We can spend a week there—no more. So if you dig for answers, you better dig hard and fast."

Gant ground his teeth silently. Of course he would dig hard and fast. For the first time, he was thrilled that he had accepted the role of interrogator. All that training he had loathed so much was about to come in handy. And if it cleared Renet's name and helped him figure out just why his men were at the mercies of ISB? He'd never regret that decision again in his life.

"The course is laid in," Gant said, flicking a glance at Tydon. "Why don't you go into the back and get some sleep. We've got a two day trek ahead of us. Once we hit hyperspace, I can watch the controls."

He expected the other to argue, and was relieved when Tydon nodded once. Once the stars stretched to lines and the lines blurred into the marbled beauty of hyperspace, he left the cockpit without a word. Gant let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. A man had a right to his privacy when it came to personal pain. And with Tydon in the rear of the shuttle, Gant was granted that same right in the front.

He closed his eyes, hand roughly tugging open the collar of his tunic. His fingers rubbed absently at his throat as he tried not to think about Renet in Lord Vader's hands. As he tried not to think—yet again—why the thought of that bothered him so much. He could tell Tydon all day long that his rancor in this fight was all about the crew that was taken from him. But to himself, he could admit—bitterly—that it was about an innocent girl that had come to represent what was going wrong with the Empire he loved so much.


	9. Chapter 9 - Assignments

A/N: Thank you all for the reviews, private messages, follows and favorites. They all help to encourage the writing process more than I can tell you. Please keep them coming! Much thanks and hugs to **ImperialJedi, Hoplite39, Admiral Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Shadir,** and **Maddie **for the awesome reviews! You guys rock. :D

As always, much thanks to **m4x70r** for allowing me to play with the OC Nathon Tydon and some of the history of the ISD _Dark Star_. All is done with the author's permission. If you like what you read in that regard, please check out the story **"To No Avail." ** It's seriously awesome. :D

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Please do not sue. This is purely for fun!

* * *

Tatooine was right where it belonged—on the fringe of the galaxy where no one would ever miss its presence.

Gant kept his bored expression in place, his eyes casting through the crowds like every other lowlife that visited this particular cantina. He'd spotted a mandalorian—a real one, not some spacer who happened upon a set of discarded armor—who was attempting to hire out his mercenary skills, several slicers that pretended to be prostitutes to make it easier to obtain access to someone's data pad, two boys no older than fourteen if they were a day trying to sell death sticks, and he was fairly certain the alcohol served in this cantina was done without a license.

All this on his first hour walking the streets of Mos Espa.

In total, the place was a wretched hive of scum and villainy, a living breathing slap in the face to the Empire and its laws. Part of him was very surprised the entire planet hadn't imploded under its own lack of coherent authority. Then again, he thought as his eyes drifted to the corner booth, lingering in utter disbelief that the "local authority" in the area was currently sucking glitterstim off of a waitress's bosom, there definitely was not anything resembling "coherency" in the entire city.

Or the entire planet, he'd wager a month's pay on that. Why, by the stars, had Renet come to this awful place?

"You're doing it again," Tydon muttered, hiding the words behind the rim of his cup. "Stop staring or someone will notice."

Gant's eyes slowly moved on from the constable and his "recreational activity," letting them sweep the place with what he hoped was the same bored indifference of before. Jerking his eyes away suddenly would have been as noticeable as walking into this place in full uniform. Instead, he let that gaze return of its own accord to the cup before him, wishing to Imperial Center and back that he could remove the images from his brain. If ever there was a reason he served the Empire, it was because of places like this.

"How much longer do we have to wait?"

"Until my contact shows himself," Tydon replied easily. "They don't exactly work on schedules."

"I know that," Gant snapped softly. "I'm not an idiot, Nathon. I just don't like this place."

He rubbed a sweaty, dusty hand on his equally sweaty dirty pants, trying not to grimace again. The clothes had been provided by a contact of Tydon's—some smuggler named Alorna Greystar—along with the ship they'd used to enter the Tatoo system. Considering Tydon was supposed to be on leave and Gant, himself, was supposed to be on the _Peremptory_ under suspension, it wasn't like the two of them could walk into the local Imperial garrison and ask for false identifications and supplies.

If they succeeded in capturing Vrad Dodonna, on the other hand, they could claim anything they liked. Bringing in a wanted rebel was worth more to any career officer than the reprimand received for taking leave of their ship. Especially if the rebel in question was wanted by Lord Vader.

Gant shifted both hands to his drink, fighting to keep one from rising to tug at his collar. Just the thought of Lord Vader had his skin crawling, his throat tightening. The nightmares of hanging in darkness, the breath slowly crushed from his body, still woke him in cold sweats. A week had come and gone since that moment the Lord Vader had nearly killed him, and still he couldn't let up on those feelings. Nor the scream that came near the end of those nightmares, the sound of Renet begging him for help, pleading for mercy right before she died—

He cut off that thought before it continued, sucking down a mouthful of the swill this place called whiskey. "Stars, what is this stuff made from, the sweat of banthas?"

Tydon chuckled, taking a small sip of his own. "Probably, Avery. I've never bothered to ask."

Gant blinked. "You've been here before?"

"Not physically," Tydon admitted, his eyes scanning the crowds with a good imitation of apathy. "The _Dark Star_ passed through this sector shortly before the Alderaan altercation. We were charged by the Imperial Senate with investigating the destruction of the _Tantive IV._ "

"That was Senator Organa's personal ship, wasn't it?"

"It was," Tydon confirmed. "Apparently it sustained unknown damage during its attempt to flee the _Devastator _above this planet. Damage to the navigation array was worse than the technicians believed. Shortly after it was discharged from Imperial custody, it encountered a meteor storm the next system over and was destroyed. All hands lost. The Senate, as one of its last actions before the Emperor had it dissolved, ruled the loss of the _Tantive IV_ as an accident."

Gant nodded, lips compressed slightly in sympathy. It was a sad day when a ship was lost, even one that had harbored a rebel agent. Surely not every member of its crew knew the treachery lurking their midst. Still, such was the peril in associating with known radical extremists. Had not the same thing lead Renet to her current predicament?

Come to think of it, wasn't that the very reason he was here on a desert planet with a black mark marring his once perfect Fleet record? The irony of that thought was almost harder to swallow than the whiskey.

"Is that where you met Alorna?" Gant asked.

"Yes. Her ship was floating about the meteor storm, looking for wreckage to sell. We brought her aboard, ran her through the standard interrogation package to ensure she had nothing to do with the destruction of the _Tantive IV_. We found her guilty of piracy, and in exchange for her life, she's to provide services when called upon."

"She didn't seem too thrilled about surrendering her ship to you. Are you certain you can trust her?"

Again, Tydon shrugged. "Trust is relative in this situation. She wants her ship back. She wants her freedom. She knows the key to both is to stay where we put her and to babysit our shuttle. Of course, it didn't hurt to remind her that this system is where we found her, where her debt to the Empire began… and how easy it could be to put her back in that storm as one of its permanent ghosts."

Gant nodded, taking another sip of whiskey to cover the wince. Not for the smuggler woman and her destiny, Alorna had chosen that the moment she decided to break Imperial law, but for the way Tydon said the word 'ghosts.' There was pain in it, in the memory of what he'd seen in discovering the fate of that counselor ship.

"It must have been a rough assignment," Gant murmured.

"It was. No one likes to pull clean-up duty when it involves the loss of that many lives. Captain Ronoe, himself, took on the unwelcomed task of informing the families that their loved ones had perished in the line of duty."

"He sounds like a good man, your captain."

"He is," Tydon nodded. "Much like your captain and first officer."

Gant made a face, grateful for the fact that he had a mouthful of the vile whiskey to cover it. It wasn't enough to keep Tydon from noticing. The other man lifted an eyebrow ever so slightly. "I've never had the pleasure of a long conversation with Captain Kand," Gant said bluntly. "And I'll keep my opinion of Commander Friel to myself, thank you very much."

A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Tydon's mouth. "He's a real hardass, isn't he?"

"His fists and his sense of humor, at least," Gant added. "And once he has something in his head, he won't let go. He's worse than a gundark with the bit between his teeth. There's no stopping him."

"A trait we share in common," Tydon lifted his glass in a form of salute. "To the hard cases in the Empire. May we always remain on their good side."

"And just what side am I on with you, hard case?" Gant asked, clinking his glass to the other.

"That depends."

"On?"

Tydon lowered his glass, and it dawned on Gant what the commander had been doing. He'd proposed the toast out of the blue, acting as if they were old academy friends, in order to shift his position. He'd seen something—or someone, rather—and had wanted to make certain he'd identified the right individual. Lifting the glass had provided him with the surveillance angle, the unrelenting light of the twin suns turning the glass with its amber liquid background into the perfect mirror-like surface.

"On how well the next twenty minutes or so go," Tydon said, eyes narrowing perceptively. "Looks like it's time to move."

* * *

She was a ghost upon the floating grave that was the _Executor_, a white-swathed figure that ran on silent bare feet through the corridors. No one stopped her, no one bothered to question her or bar her way through any door she wished to enter. Not that there were many thresholds she would dare to cross. After her first day of being released from his chambers, after walking into a briefing room and listening to the things these fleet men were planning, she'd learned to keep to the safe areas of the ship.

If there were such a thing as safe areas… Renet was beginning to question if the word 'safe' even existed in the galaxy anymore.

A week she had been on the _Executor_, and still there was no answer as to when she would be freed. The first few days had been the worst, locked into that meditation chamber with the Lord Vader. His mind had been inside hers constantly, reading her thoughts and memories as if they were a book. She could literally feel his fingers flipping through parts of her life as if searching for specific chapters. No amounts of screaming, of begging, of sobbing and beating against circular walls of the meditation capsule that sealed him away from her, could make it stop.

He was just there… constantly… absorbing her every thought and fear and desire.

And always coming full circle back to the memories of her brothers, of Nathon and Luthar. Those memories he touched with surprising delicacy, cradling her mind like a fragile glass vase containing the most precious flower. Those were the worst of the touches, the delicate ones that soothed and lulled, banishing the pain and fear, but never truly erasing it from her thoughts.

In some ways she was glad of that. It was better to remember the pain, to hold onto the fact that he couldn't do anything worse to her if she already knew what torment tasted like. He rewarded her with pain, ironically enough, when he had had enough of the happier memories of her life. And always there was pain when he touched upon her memories of Nathon with their father, doing things as fathers do when they raise their sons with pride.

Just as always there was pain when he saw her mother and father exchange loving glances, when her father and mother held both herself and Nathon in loving embraces. A happy family, a devoted and loving moment that should have been her refuge from the pain. Lord Vader had taught her that memories were not refuges, and pain could tear apart any moment of remembered happiness. Tormenting her as he, himself, was tormented.

It was strange, but when she had begun to laugh at the pain, had given up on the idea of escape or death or ever seeing her family again, that he had left her mind. It wasn't freedom, nor was it that he was done with her at all. Nor did he fear that she had gone mad. He still touched upon her mind from time to time when he wanted to view something specific. But it was no longer a constant presence, a constant pressure to inspire her to new heights of suffering.

It was then that the door to his meditation chamber was left unlocked. It was then that an officer came to collect her and take her to a tiny cabin a door or two down from the meditation room. Her room for the duration of her stay upon the _Executor_, the closet of which contained four white dresses, all identical in cut, all without a smidgen of color to defile their purity. A comlink nestled into a black metal bracelet was literally locked around her wrist, orders issued to her to attend the Lord Vader whenever he commanded it. If she attempted to remove the bracelet, he would know.

Bad things would happen to her then. Very bad things.

The first night she had slept on the floor beneath the bed, unaccustomed to the feeling of real padding to coddle her flesh. The mattress given to her onboard the _Peremptory_ had been thin as flimsy, but it had felt like clouds in comparison to the cold metallic slab that had served as her bed before. Going back to sleeping on the unforgiving durasteel deck of Lord Vader's meditation chamber, without pillow or blanket, had nearly broken her all over again.

It was better to go without, she had learned, than to have something they could take away from her.

And now he was in her mind again, urging her to hasten her pace, to hurry to his side. He was on the bridge, her dark lord, and he wanted her at his side. Unconsciously she ran, the white shimmersilk gown flowing behind her, her bare feet soundless on the deck. Men got out of her way in a hurry, especially those that knew her as the Lord Vader's pet. Those that knew often let their gazes soften in pity; those that did not gaped in wonder that she was still alive, that the Lord Vader hadn't killed her yet.

It was a wonder she shared, though she dared not say it aloud. She was not allowed to speak with anyone save the Dark Lord, for any reason at all.

"My Lord," she said, dropping a curtsey before she realized she was doing it, breath heaving in and out of her lungs. "I am here."

His breathing filled her ears, the electronic draw of oxygen in and out of the respirator grating and offensive. But no more so than the sudden thrust of his hand into her mind, her head snapping back and the familiar agony settled across her thoughts. How interesting, that now even distress could be as familiar as a once-loved voice. She braced herself for when he pulled open her mental book, most likely returning to the pages he enjoyed most.

Feeling torment at those memories as she did.

Only this time, he selected a different chapter entirely.

"Yes," he said, watching her eyes widen. "I wish to know of this Commander Gant."

"I… I will tell you what I can," she stammered, closing her eyes against a sudden wave of tears. "I didn't spend much time with him, my lord."

"You spent enough time, Renet. Time enough for me to determine his loyalties. Open your thoughts to me and you will be rewarded."

"I want no reward," she said instantly, sincerely. And bit back a yelp as his mental hand caressed her thoughts gently. "I mean it, my Lord. You know that. I… I don't want a reward."

"You will have one," he replied. "Do you understand why?"

She shook her head. "N-no, my lord."

"A pity," he held out a hand to her. "Perhaps you'll understand in time. For now, you will do as you are told."

Renet closed her eyes, taking that offered hand, feeling his amusement at her revulsion. Feeling his approval as she clung to that revulsion as her reality. He led her to the forward viewports, escorting her like a lady rather than the… slave? prisoner?... that she was. Officers stepped aside on the command walkway, eyes staring forward into the distance in proper military stance. She'd given up searching for a savior to come bounding to her defense, ignoring them as they tried to ignore her. These men belonged to the Lord Vader, heart and soul. They would not stop him from doing anything to her, up and including strangling the life from her.

These men would simply step over her dead body and continue along their way.

"Is it because I'm a rebel?" she asked, knowing he caught those thoughts.

"No," he answered. "It is because I wish it. You are not a rebel, Renate Tydon."

His fingers closed tightly over her hand, feeling her shock long before the impulse to jerk to a stop ran through her body. He left her no time to react, kept up his monstrously large strides that forced her to nearly jog beside him.

"You know," she replied, staring up at him. "Will you… will my brother… and Luthar… They—"

"I have no interest in Nathon Tydon or Luthar Friel as they currently stand," he said, coming to a stop before the viewports. "That may change in the future. For now, I wish to know what you know of Avery Gant. You will open your mind and show me."

There was nothing she could do to stop him and they both knew it. Like the other times she had accompanied him, she settled down on the deck in a pool of white silk, her back against the wall beneath the viewport. He stood before her, hands clasped behind his cape, so close that she was wedged between his legs and the wall.

He stared out at the stars, a black guardian of death looming above her. She, her gown and hair practically glowing in the muted lights of the bridge, sat like a star eclipsed by black clouds. Renet drew her knees to her chest, rested her head on her knees, and tried not to shiver too much as he pulled memory after memory out of her head.

And all around them, the bridge crew of the _Executor_ went about their daily activities without as much as a glance in their direction.

* * *

"We have entered the Poln system, sir," reported the helmsman.

"Good," Commander Friel replied, crossing over to the forward display. "Alert Captain Kand to our arrival. Set sensors to maximum scan and order all TIEs to standby. There's no telling what we may find in this sector."

"Very good, sir," answered a lieutenant.

Friel listened with half an ear as his orders were relayed, his eyes seeing the misshapen lumps of material that were supposed to be planets. Once those lumps had worn the spherical shape of true planets. Small planets, to be certain, barely large enough to bear that classification. Now all that remained were twisted minerals and pockmarked surfaces in the wake of the Mining Guild's massive coring machines. It was said that the entire mantle of the planet was riddled with caves and warrens from the ship-sized drills, turning it into nothing more than a massive maze. Wilder rumors stated that one could enter from the northern pole of the planet and exit the southern pole without having to cut a new path.

It made it the perfect den for rebels, gangsters, and all sorts of other illegals. It made him long to order the _Peremptory_ to open fire with all its turbolasers and neutralize the nest before anything else could claim sanctuary within it. But this was not his ship, and those were not his orders.

He turned with military precision as the doors to the Captain's readyroom hissed open, his posture ramrod straight. "Sir," he greeted as Captain Kand joined him. "We are in position, sir. I have ordered for a full scan of the first available planet."

"Good," Kand replied, staring out at the system as well. "What a mess this place is."

"Agreed, sir. Has the regional governor given any thought to restructuring it?"

"Not that I am aware of. I doubt very much that it would be worth the effort or the cost."

"It could make a useful prison system," Friel offered. "Provided that the sector could be mapped completely. A work-release program could revamp this system quite cheaply."

Kand kept his face carefully neutral, knowing that his first officer wasn't thinking of the sort of criminals that would be suited to this kind of manual labor. He was thinking of the rebels, of the sort of people like his adopted sister, the mislead and aimless souls that were sucked into the lies the rebellion propagated to swell its ranks. Unfortunately those were the type that never took to rehabilitation. It was often easier to reform a spice-runner than an idealist.

"Still no word from Commanders Tydon and Gant, I take it?" He asked quietly, almost imperceptibly.

"None, sir," Friel replied just as softly.

"There is still time, Luthar. If there is proof to be found of that girl's innocence, they'll find it."

Friel turned to his superior, very slowly. "Sir?"

"I have not changed my opinion of her, nor of your friend Tydon," Kand replied, a slight edge returning to that soft tone. "I applaud him for his diligence and loyalty to his family, make no mistake about that. However he made an oath to the Empire that is in many ways stronger and more binding than blood. I hope he keeps that oath in the forefront of his mind."

"He will," Friel replied resolutely. "Nathon is loyal to the Empire. He and Gant will return by the proper time, regardless of what they find or don't find."

"Speaking of findings, what has Lieutenant Commander Kittinger learned from our prisoners?"

Friel nodded towards the command section of the bridge, waiting for Captain Kand to take the lead. Once there, he pulled up the report on a data pad. "He has made some progress, but not as much as we would like. Two of the sixteen prisoners died in interrogation thus far, three more are reported in a coma-like state. Medical is uncertain if they will ever recover."

Kand frowned, sinking into Captain's chair and keying for the same report. "That is not encouraging news. Make a personal trip down to interrogation and remind the Lieutenant Command that, while the Empire appreciates his zeal to find the truth, he might consider what other zeal may be utilized on his career if he kills all the prisoners without results. This is not the _Executor_. We tend to keep our prisoners alive long enough to see proper trial."

"Yes, sir," Friel made a note in his log. "He did uncover a small bit of information that Intelligence believes is a promising lead. Prisoner Eleven spouted off about a station somewhere in this system. He didn't know much about it, other than he was ordered by someone in the Rebellion to locate that station and hold for further orders. Intelligence has put in a request for further information from the prisoners to corroborate this."

"A station out here?" Kand shook his head. "Aside from old mining offices, I doubt there is anything left remotely resembling a station. At least, not anything official. Did Prisoner Eleven give over further details?"

"None at this time, sir. Shall I ask Lieutenant Kittinger to focus on this information?"

Kand pursed his lips, tapping a finger on the armrest of his chair in thought. "Do not make it obvious," he said at last. "Authorize Intelligence's request, however keep digging for the standard information as well. I don't want our overzealous crewmate to focus on this at the exclusion of all other information."

"Yes, sir," Friel replied again, entering the order into the system.

"This bothers me, Commander. Mysterious summons to a dead system by a Grand Admiral, and now rumors of a station that has ties to neither the Rebellion nor the Empire, and yet the rebels are willing to send men after it. I don't like it."

"Agreed. I've already ordered all TIE pilots to standby. Should we press to full alert?"

"No, there is no cause for that right now. Have the crew continue with sector scans and send out probe droids to map out as much of these hollow planets as we can. We still have time before Admiral Thrawn will be in position for an update on our activities. Be thorough, but be swift."

"Yes, sir."

"I don't like this," Kand echoed again, more to himself than to his second. "I don't like this at all. Alert me if you find anything. Until then, you have the bridge."


	10. Chapter 10 - Pain and Puzzles

A/N: Thanks to **Hoplite39, Admiral Mitth'raw'nuruodo,** and** Shadir** for the lovely reviews. :) And thanks to everyone that has favortied, followed, and sent private messages. They all help to make this story awesome. This chapter came out very dark, so I hope it doesn't offend anyone. I almost moved it to an M rating again. But I'll let you all be the judge of that.

As always, special thanks to **m4x70r** for the use of the OC Nathon Tydon from "To No Avail." The story is awesome, so please go read it and enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OCs. Please do not sue. This is purely for fun.

* * *

It was, Gant thought as he dried his hands on a fragment of shirt, not a bad bit of work. Indeed, it was… cathartic in a way.

The Twi'lek rebel in question was still unconscious, his face dripping with magenta-hued blood. Not from any life-threatening damage dished out by his hand, Gant knew. No, the blood that currently dripped onto the plastic floor covering was mostly from well-placed and painful cuts to the upper face and the two lekku head tentacles that marked his race. It was one of the first techniques taught to him upon taking the post of interrogator. Head wounds bled like the mad, no matter the species, though never enough to cause exsanguination. Just enough to make someone think they were about to bleed to death.

As to the rebel's current state of consciousness? Well, that wasn't his doing. That blame rested squarely on the shoulders of his partner.

Nathon sat back on his heels, careful not to get his boots into the blood pooling on the plastic. In his hand was a stun wand, the tip still glowing faintly from liberal use on the rebel's flesh. Faint bitter burning still hung in the air, tiny round marks on the man's chest and cheeks from where Tydon had held the wand to the skin far longer than he should have. Not that Gant could blame him. If left to him, that rebel would have been hanging from his ankles, bleeding from more strategically placed cut marks.

And he would still be screaming. There would have been no escape in the blackness of unconsciousness.

It surprised him how much he missed his interrogator droids, or more to the point, the combination of drugs at his disposal to prevent little annoyances like the target blacking out from pain overload.

"How long will he be out?" Nathon asked when he could finally speak in a civil tone. Even then, it was dangerously quiet.

Gant shrugged. "It depends. Anywhere from between thirty minutes to two hours, standard."

Nathon shot a glare over his shoulder. "We may not have that time, Avery."

Again, all he could do was shrug. "I don't have access to my usual equipment, Nathon. If I had a life scanner, I could give you the time down to milliseconds. I'm doing the best with what I have. Just be grateful that the man was carrying that stun wand. Otherwise, I would have had to resort to methods that could have killed him."

There was no arguing with that, though he could see the need to in Nathon's eyes. The fact that he wasn't, that he was trusting Avery to be good at his job and know these things, were marks of a brilliant commander. Avery wasn't above taking notes even now. Especially now that he bore that rank. If he wanted to eventually get out of the interrogation business like he had confessed—in a roundabout way—to Renet, he was going to need skills like Tydon's.

Even if that meant he shared the other man's pure frustration. They were close to finding out just why the Rebels were interested in this planet, and possibly one step closer to clearing Renet's name. Maybe capturing Vrad Dodonna in the process. It wouldn't look too shabby on either of their service records to bag a prize like Dodonna at the end of all this.

But ultimately this was about Renet, and about the men he'd lost when Lord Vader had taken her…

"We got something at least," Gant said into the heavy silence.

"A farm," Tydon spat, rising to his feet and tossing the stun wand carelessly onto the nearby tabletop. "There are a million moisture farms on this dustball."

"It's still something," Avery insisted. "This is the reason that we interrogators don't like you brass-types hanging out when we do our work. These things are delicate, take time to cultivate the prisoner to give the answer you need. It doesn't happen with the wave of a hand."

At least, it wasn't supposed to work that way. He almost choked on that last word, the image of Lord Vader doing exactly that—waving his hand and nearly killing him, superseding reality for a minute. To gain an ounce of air, another second of precious life, he would have confessed to almost anything. And that wasn't necessarily due to the fact that his life was about to end horribly. It was more the fact that… that _something_… had seized the depths of his heart as surely as it had gripped his throat. Something so cold, so vile and invasive and unbelievably obscene…

Gant took a step backward quickly, as if physical distance could erase the emotional trauma of that moment.

Tydon didn't miss that momentary lapse of balance. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Avery managed out, throat inexplicably dry. Lying through his teeth. "Still not used to the climate. Probably dehydrated."

"Drink up, then. I doubt this man is going to live long enough to use his water rations."

Avery nodded, heading to the tiny refrigeration unit and the bottled water therein. He didn't hesitate as he reached for two bottles, lobbing one towards Nathon. They were in the rebel's hotel room, so the charge would go to the rebel's account. It seemed like perfect justification and payment for the time it was taking to extract information from him. Not to mention the time they'd spent skulking in alleys like gutter trash, following the man around town without being discovered.

Crouching in heat and dust and trash and filth. When he got back to the _Peremptory_, he was going to bribe half the ship if he had to in order to get enough water for a real bath. It might be the only thing to get the sand-stench from his pores.

Stars above, even the water tasted like sand. Faintly salty and mineral heavy. He amended his plans to asking medical for a full scan and perhaps a day soaking in bacta to repair what damage he was doing to his kidneys in drinking this swill.

"You given any more thought to this Naboo lake house?" He asked Tydon.

"Not anything productive," the other admitted, leaning back against the cheap plaster wall and closing his eyes. "I can't think of one reason that Dodonna would reference it. Naboo holds no strategic position, and its current ruler is certified as loyal. The populations of humans and gungans coexist peacefully enough, though the later chafe at their forced isolation under the seas. Other than that, the planet has no army of its own, no stake in any shipyards, and primarily produces art and music as its chief export."

Nathon glanced at Avery. "Other than serving as the birthworld of His Grace, the Emperor, no citizen of worth has ties to that planet."

"Do you think the house belonged to the Emperor at some point?"

"If it did, I would think His Majesty and Lord Vader would have had it moved somewhere safe. Or had it destroyed if they felt it contained anything dangerous."

Avery nodded, scowling. "I've thought of all that, too. I can't come up with a reason as to why people lost their lives and possibly their careers over a hand-drawn picture of the thing."

"That's why we need this Twi'lek to cooperate," Nathon replied, nudging the body with his boot. "And we need it quickly. I figure we have another five hours before someone will come looking for him. We, and any trace of our presence, need to be long gone before that happens."

"Right," Avery chugged the last of the water and tossed the bottle into the bag they brought for such things. "I can try something else to get him aware again. Let's go for the same routine as last time, with me in the lead. The focus will be the moisture farm, but follow me when I loop him through some odd questions. With luck, he'll confess before he knows he's doing it."

Nathon rose to his feet, tossing his empty bottle into the bag as well and picking up the stun wand.

Avery pursed his lips and extended a hand. "Let me have control of that this time. I know Renet means the world to you. The last thing we have time for is for him to confess to helping her into the rebellion. You may not be able to control yourself."

Nathon glared at the other man, but relinquished the wand.

"Thank you."

Avery settled the wand down on the table next to him. The table far on the other side of the room from Nathon. He selected a vial of dark purple liquid from the bag, holding it to the light.

"This is a minor essence of glitterstim spice," he explained. "I was able to distill it from the meager amount we took from your smuggler friend. Don't worry, we still have enough to support our cover as spice dealers. Once I combine it with a dash of this brandy, the vapors will be enough to bring the prisoner around. But I have to warn you, it's dangerous. The fermented items in the brandy will react negatively to the spice. It will run his neurons like a hyperdrive in overload, so we're only going to get a few minutes out of him before he dies."

Nathon felt a slight curling of his upper lip, watching the light sparkle against the iridescent violet fluid. "I'm not comfortable with giving Glitterstim to the prisoner. He's going to have limited telepathic ability while on that stuff. We don't need him skimming our thoughts and figuring out we're Imperial.

"That won't be an option," Gant shook his head. "There's no coming back from this. Anything he may learn from us will follow him to his grave."

Nathon pursed his lips slightly, glancing back at the Twi'lek. "I don't like it. Contrary to popular beliefe, I harbor no ill will to the other races in the galaxy. But I also don't see another option at this point. We're running out of time. So long as we get the information we need, we'll dump the body near the local garrison. Let them take the prize for capture of a rebel spy, dead or otherwise."

"Right. When I give the command, take a deep breath and hold it. You don't want to inhale any of this," Avery advised, dropping down on the plastic and lifting the male's head with one hand. "So we're clear, we're going after the farm information, yes?"

"That, and any other names of rebels in the area," Nathon added, kneeling down again next to the male. "It won't hurt to do some cleanup in the area while we're here. Dropping the names to the garrison anonymously, and following up when we get back to our ships."

"Agreed," Avery replied. "Get his shoulders, and watch out for those lekku. They can get pretty twitchy."

Nathon adjusted his stance, putting his hands on the Twi'lek's shoulders. "One of these days, you're going to have to tell me how someone with obvious skills in chemical engineering ended up working Interrogation on a Star Destroyer."

"Would you believe I do it for the sheer joy of sailing the stars?"

Nathon cocked an eyebrow. "Not for a minute."

"Then you'll have to give me time to come up with a rather convincing lie," Avery put in, positioning his thumb and forefinger around the top of the vial. "Ready?"

Nathon nodded. Both men held their breath as Avery gave the vial a sudden shake, then popped the stopper free. Purplish glittery vapors emanated from the vial, sailing up the Twi'lek's nose. Avery had a split second to stopper the tube before the prisoner's eyes flashed open, Nathon leaning hard on the bucking shoulders.

"Easy now, Tor'pag," Nathon said, putting all his weight onto his arms. "You didn't think we'd let you die that easily, now did you?"

"I know nothing more!"

"See, we don't believe that," Avery cut in, plastering a smile on his face that made nightmares seem warm and tender. "My friend, here, bet me good credits that you know a hell of a lot more than you've already told us. Now, we don't have a lot of time to mess around. I need to know everything you know about that moisture farm. Talk, or this is going to get much worse."

"I know nothing—"

Avery rose, taking his time to wander back to the tiny table that held his limited tools. As if on cue, Nathon jerked Tor'pag forward, sliding up behind him. One firm hand grabbed the man's chin, the other yanking back on the purplish lekku tentacles. Making certain that Tor'pag had an unobstructed view of the show.

"I don't believe you, Tor'pag," Avery continued, picking up both the slender knife and the stun wand and turning back to him. "And as long as you keep protesting your innocence, it's going to take a lot longer for me to believe anything you have to say. The longer that takes, the longer you are going to hurt. Keep in mind that we are on a time table, and I'm willing to multiply that pain by that short time. It's up to you, really."

Tor'pag's eyes widened, the pupils dilating as the glitterstim vapors hit home. Fear raced through him as the slight telepathic properties of the spice took hold of his mind. He could see just how far Gant was willing to go to get the information. Just as he could see the barely contained burning rage within Nathon that he was forced to go to these extremes at all, that his sister's life was on the line. And Gant watched it all play out over his face, every second of fear, every moment of certainty that Nathon would go to any lengths to protect his family.

Perhaps that, more than any fear that Gant could inspire physically, loosened the Twi'lek's tongue.

"The old Lars farmstead," Tor'pag nearly shrieked. "And the shack of someone named Old Ben! I can tell you where they are!"

"Why are these important to the rebellion, Tor'pag?"

"I don't know! I swear! The Lars' were an old farming family that held that land for generations. I don't know what else they had there, but it was burned to the ground by Imperial troops shortly before the Alderaan massacre. All that remains is a burnt-out husk."

"What about this 'Old Ben' person?"

"He vanished around the same time as the Lars' murder. Again, that's all I know!"

Avery picked up a data pad—Tor'pag's data pad—and called up a local map. "Show me."

Tor'pag did… and he told them several other names of rebellion sympathizers before the glitterstim destroyed what was left of his mental faculties.

* * *

His hand on her head brought her back to consciousness, the cold feeling of machinery in the mocking form of a comforting touch. Renet had had no idea when she'd drifted off, but judging from the numbness in her legs, it had to be for quite some time. Sitting in such a position, her body wedged between the wall of durasteel and the wall of her Dark Lord, it wouldn't have taken long for her circulation to cut off. What was a surprise was that she'd slept through it.

It was amazing what a person could endure when faced with pain on a daily basis.

"Did… did you find what you need, my Lord?"

"Yes. You have served me well."

Her eyes closed, tears threatening to slip their gates. "Then must I endure a reward?"

His rumbling took on a different characteristic, a slightly higher quality to it. Was it… was he laughing? No, that was the wrong word. He did not feel joy or humor, the emotions produced real laughter. This was… a dark chuckle. Amusement at her behavior, at her refusal to give him something in which to take away from her. And so he gave it anyway, filled her room with dresses and softness for her to stare at, to tempt her. So much so that she retreated into the cave beneath her bed, pressed to steel on all sides.

Steel as cold and hard as her reality.

"No," he said, and took a step backward.

She tumbled to her hands and knees, a tiny whimper escaping her pressed lips. Pins and needles radiated up her legs, her spine, as circulation was restored. "Th-thank you, my lord."

"You are dismissed, Renet. Return to your quarters until I have need for you again."

She climbed to her feet on unsteady legs, clinging to the viewport lip to keep her balance. "Why did you want to know about Avery?"

He did not answer, and so she turned to him… and lost her balance. Her hands reached out on reflex, caught his arm where it was behind his back, caught his cape in the other hand. She braced herself for the deluge of pain, to be flung from him with the Force as she had seen him do to officers that had failed him. At the very least, she readied herself for his fist in her thoughts, opened herself for the mental beating that would accompany displeasure.

The first four days of her imprisonment in his meditation room had been full of those lessons regarding disobedience.

But there was no pain, no further presence in her thoughts other than his usual pressure. "Why?" she dared ask again.

"He is useful to me," the Dark Lord answered at last. "He will do my searching for me, as will your brother."

"Searching for what, my lord?"

"For the same thing they want."

It clicked. It suddenly clicked. All those bookmarked chapters in her life that he reread and reread nearly daily.

"Family," she breathed, her voice nearly unheard in her own ears. "Fathers and sons… you have a family. And as long as you have me, they'll search to the ends of the galaxy to give you what you want."

His hand reappeared in her mind. _I see that you do understand, at least in part. Now you will never speak of this again unless I give you permission. That is your reward and your punishment._

Fire inside her head, so much so that her eyes snapped shut. Fire scorching his commands into her brain, into her heart. Sealing his secrets to her, and sealing her to him. Skywalker… his son's name was Luke Skywalker. The knowledge was her reward, something that could never be taken from her, but that she was allowed to know.

Even if she didn't understand why.

"Th..thank you, m… my lord."

Her head came forward, resting on his arm. And she was aware that the bridge crew had gone silent, staring at the spectacle of the monster in black and the woman in white. Stark contrasts to the extreme, and yet she was allowed to do this, to touch him. It was her reward, after all, payment for walking through his fire. The revulsion she felt at such an act toyed with the slight morbid amusement of the moment. They all feared him, the crew of this massive ship. And rightly so. She feared him to her core, hated him with all her being… and served him as they served him.

Because there was no choice but to serve him.

Because he had the power to take even death away from them.

There was no escape. In that terror, that tormented horror, there was a thrill of power. They would fear her now, these men in uniform. Not because she possessed wealth or title or rank. Not because she was a power unto herself. But because she could do _this_, had figured out the secret. And until he grew tired of her, until she outlived her usefulness, she had this power that the others lacked.

His hand caressed her thoughts once more, approval ghosting across her mind. So she stayed where she was, clinging to her Dark Lord and the secrets that bound them.

* * *

If anything marked the absence of Lieutenant Commander Avery Gant from the _Peremptory_, it was the feeling that one got when stepping into the detentionary. Commander Luthar Friel paused as the lift doors opened, taking in the air of the place with a firm frown. Before this whole mess with Renet and Nathon had begun, walking into this particular section of the ship had felt like walking into any other. It was calm, orderly, with just the right amount of tension to show that Gant kept a tight reign over his team.

Now, under the eye of Lieutenant Commander Sephoran Kittinger, he could nearly reach out and touch the fear in the air.

Friel's frown deepened as he walked into the prisoner control station, noting the way the officers present from Ensign to Lieutenant fairly bristled with agitation, as if constantly looking over their shoulders for some nameless, formless terror. Almost every eye noticed his entrance, and more than a few filled with pleading or hope before taking on the flat stare all officers seemed to master before graduating the Academy.

And seated in Gant's chair was the source of all Friel's current annoyances. Sephoran Kittinger was immaculately groomed as was expected of his rank, his boots polished with perhaps a touch more shine than was necessary. His white-blonde hair was perfectly trimmed to military standards, and he wore sideburns as was the current style favored by the military Elite these days. Friel did not care for them, personally, seeing the fashion as a reminder of the mistakes of the men that had made them trendy. Admiral Conan Motti and General Cassio Tagge, to name a few. All dead now, killed when the Rebellion saw fit to destroy the Death Star.

He mourned their loss only for what it meant to the Empire as a whole. Nearly a quarter of the best and brightest minds in the Empire had died that day above Yavin. It was a blow the Emperor was still struggling to overcome. Yet he would not mourn the stupidity that lead to the rash decisions, the political backstabbing, and the utter incompetence that brought the death of so many.

Staring at those sideburns, at those who wore them, was like rubbing salt in the wounds.

Currently, Kittinger was engrossed in whatever displayed on his monitor, sharp green-gold eyes lasered onto the images. From the faint sounds of pain that made it to Friel's ears, clearly the man was engaged in observing a session with one of the prisoners. He glanced around the room, counting the personnel. His frown turned into a glower as he came up with the exact number of heads that should be on duty at this time of ship's day. Either Kittinger was approving some overtime, or he had sent in a droid to work over a prisoner without any human supervision.

That was something Gant had never done, at least not for a full session. The man had believed in the use of drugs and inducers only when necessary, going so far as to handle work with his own hands if it brought about results with the least amount of resistance. Gauging by the faint dark smile of enjoyment on Kittinger's face, he wasn't anything like Gant at all.

He nearly appeared to be enjoying the show, going so far as to sip at something from a mug from time to time.

"I do not know how things were run on the _Executor_," Friel said softly, dangerously. "However, here on the _Peremptory_, we do not enjoy a beverage while there is work to be done."

Petty, he knew, but at the moment it was the only thing he could call the man out on. No officer worth the title enjoyed being compared to a predecessor, and certainly none liked being told how to run their assignments. There was nothing in the regulations that required a human presence when employing a droid for this kind of work. Yet… something about it just didn't sit well with him. Just like the man, himself.

So when all the other officers within earshot jumped at those sharp words of rebuke, he smiled inwardly. He was displeased with this man, and he did not care that others knew it.

Apparently, neither did Kittinger.

To Friel's surprised annoyance, Kittinger took his time setting aside the mug and coding for a recording of the current interrogation. He further stood with a speed that could be perceived as just this side of disrespectful, his hands smoothing over his uniform before standing at full attention.

"Apologies, Commander Friel," he said, the smooth Core world accent nearly flavoring the words with a hint of amusement. "I will offer explanation if required."

The initial desire to tell Kittinger what he could do with his explanation and his suave Core-world voice was quelled by years of discipline and the weight of the uniform on his shoulders. His best friend held that lilt to his voice, as did Captain Kand. Yet neither one inspired so much as an ounce of anger in him just by speaking.

"Did I request an explanation, Lieutenant Commander?"

Kittinger's face paled slightly, as if surprised that his good name and breeding hadn't excused a minor lapse in protocol. "No, sir."

"When I require explanations, I ask. Such as now. Where are we with the prisoners transferred from the _Executor_?"

Kittinger relaxed ever so slightly. Seeing this topic as safe ground, most likely. "I am in the midst of interrogating Prisoner Ten, sir," he said, gesturing to the monitor. "She is a most fascinating study in both stubborn loyalty and wounded pride. As you can see here, I have used a droid to further undermine that pride. Treating her as of less importance than a male prisoner has resulted in fury. If I had to hazard a guess, I would say that she joined this rabble of traitors simply because she was rejected from Imperial service."

Friel slowly counted to five before he allowed himself to speak. "This 'rabble of traitors' has succeeded in destroying a major battle station," he corrected. "Taking with it some of the better minds of the Empire. I would think they'd transcended from rabble to true rebels."

"I refuse to dignify their actions with a title, sir," Kittinger countered. "Words are power, as are titles. I would give them neither."

It was a logical conclusion, one that would have made sense if it came out of Gant's mouth, though Gant wasn't nearly as arrogant enough to believe that refusing to name a danger made it any less of a threat. A tinge of regret started to worm its way into Friel's heart. Sending Gant to assist Tydon on the mission may have been a larger mistake than he'd first thought. Still, if anyone was going to get to the heart of what that lake house business was all about, it was those two.

He just had to give them more time. Which meant he had to bite his tongue and deal with subpar replacements.

"And the others?"

Kittinger tapped another switch on the board, the display splitting to sixteen different images. Seven prisoners either sat, paced, or laid down on the floor of their cells. All twitching or trembling in reaction to the individual interrogation techniques applied to them at some point in their stay. Now, they were in what Gant had called the "interim stage." The period of time in which their bodies were allowed to heal, but their minds were free to remember just what had happened to them. Free, thanks to a specific chemical pumped into the air in their cells, that allowed their imaginations to heighten, to ponder just what was coming next or relive in exaggerated extreme what they'd undergone already.

To some, it was worse than the actual interrogation sessions.

Four prisoners were currently sleeping, allowed a reward for giving information. The woman Kittinger had mentioned was pressed to the wall by the hovering droid, two of its appendages holding her arms high above her head, her toes barely brushing the steel floor. A third probe, as slender as a hair, was buried deep into her chest where her heart rested. A tiny glittering quality to that probe indicated an electrical pulse being used.

No questions were being asked of her.

The other five cells were blank, empty. And that emptiness, along with the muted screams of the woman on the screen, reminded Friel just why he had been sent here in the first place.

"Stop the interrogation on Prisoner Ten," he ordered. "I want to speak with that prisoner, myself."

Kittinger eyed him warily, yet was smart enough to understand a direct order from a superior when he heard one. "Yes, sir."

He keyed a command into the console, and Friel watched as the droid withdrew its probes. The woman slumped to the floor, tiny convulsions shaking her form.

"What information has this prisoner divulged, Kittinger?"

"Nothing of interest, sir," the man replied, pulling up a report. "She mostly spat the usual rabbe—rebel heresies. The Emperor is evil, the Empire is corrupt… the usual. I have taken a special interest in breaking her, however. I've found that the most vocal of the prisoners, even if they lack any worthy information to contribute, often make the best examples. Breaking her and parading her before her less stubborn companions will further help to erode their wills."

"And after you have broken her, after she has served her purpose?"

Kittinger shrugged a shoulder. "She'll be executed like the rest. At least this way, she's served a purpose to the Empire. I find it ironically pleasing that these rebels think to cause so much damage to our Empire and in the end serve it with their deaths in ways that outshine any supposed harm they caused in their lifetimes."

"And this one, this rebel in particular," Kittinger said, leaning in to stare at the image of her trembling form. "She'll be most helpful, indeed. By the time I am finished with her, she'll believe she's served the Empire her entire life. Perhaps, if time permits, I'll even let her assist in the interrogation of her former compatriots. Imagine the horror when I reveal the truth to her right before her death."

Those officers on duty, Friel noted, had found reasons not to be in the monitoring section during this particular explanation. Those that could not leave it were buried hard into their work, going at reports and tasks with a fanaticism that screamed their unease with the conversation louder than any vocal expression ever could. Friel found his own hands balled into fists behind his back, held there with will stronger than the metal of binders. If he moved an inch, so much as batted an eye, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he'd strike Kittinger.

Not because he was violent by nature, though the events of the past two weeks would have belied that statement. But because he wasn't seeing this nameless rebel woman in the image on the screen. He was seeing Renet as she had been after Gant had finished with her that first time. He was imagining what horrors she was currently experiencing at the hands of men like Kittinger. If Kittinger was any indication of what sort of men Lord Vader chose to serve on the _Executor_, then Renet was in a hell unlike any he could imagine.

If she was even still alive.

It took everything in him to keep his face neutral, his color normal, and his voice steady. "You did not answer my question, Lieutenant Commander Kittinger," he said, tone going cool. "I did not ask for your opinion on what this prisoner has told you, I asked for facts."

Kittinger jerked, surprised not at the tone but that it was directed at him. Inwardly, Friel smiled, a sharp wolf-like smile. Sephoran Kittinger was about to learn that this wasn't the _Executor_. A Core name wasn't going to grant him special dispensation to protocol, nor save him from the consequences of his actions. And so help him, Friel intended there to be severe consequences one way or the other for the unnecessary cruelty he was witnessing. Starting with having this monster bounced off the _Peremptory _the moment Gant returned.

No, the _moment_ that this mission for the Grand Admiral was completed.

"Sir," Kittinger began, standing at full attention. Finally understanding his explanations hadn't impressed his superior officer as planned. "The prisoner knew only of the abandoned rebel bases on Dantooine and Yavin. She spoke of names of known rebel leaders, the latest of which was Airen Cracken. She claims that she worked directly for him, though I believe that to be a lie. The woman does not possess the intelligence necessary to—"

"She worked for an Alliance Intelligence leader, one that was, and most likely still is, involved in infiltration of BlasTech's weapon and research departments. Lieutenant Commander Kittinger, have you or have you not familiarized yourself with the previous missions of the _Peremptory_?"

"I have, sir."

"Then you understand that two weeks ago this ship was involved in capturing a rebel convoy smuggling weapons out of the Inat Rangoon BlasTech facility. Weapons that were headed for the Otter Rim territories, possibly this one, itself."

"She claims to have worked for Cracken," Kittinger had the temerity to counter, going slightly red. "I doubt that claim. I believe her to be a ruse, sir. One of the others captured is the real agent for Cracken. When I break her, she'll help me uncover the true agent."

Friel felt his teeth grinding. The pieces of this puzzle were starting to fall into place. The _Peremptory_ hadn't been snagged by Grand Admiral Thrawn on a whim, or simply because it happened to be the closest ship unassigned to a serious task at the moment. It was selected because it had a payload full of Blastech weaponry meant for this section of space. And now it sported an additional payload full of rebels that had, quite possibly, been sent here to intercept these weapons for a station of some kind.

Rebels that had more information than this idiot before him believed.

_Stars, Renet! Just what in the burning heart of the galaxy were you involved with?!_

"I will be the judge of what this rebel knows and does not know, Kittinger," he turned, waving a hand to the nearest stormtrooper on duty. "Until then, her handling will be my responsibility and mine alone. Are we clear?"

"Yes, sir."

Friel headed into the heart of the detentionary, hoping that his sudden interest into the treatment of this rebel woman was enough to scare some sense into the upstart Kittinger. The man had to realize that he was now being watched very carefully, and that might lead him to making better choices in his interrogation practices, leaving more alive than dead. Though judging from the way the hairs stood up on the back of his neck, Friel knew that wasn't the case. Kittinger was staring daggers at him, measuring his backside for a target as large as his ego.

_Let him_, Friel thought with dark amusement. If the man took so much as one step out of line, Friel would enjoy the duty of spacing the son of a bitch. He could float back to his precious Core world.


	11. Chapter 11 - Saving the Worthy

A/N: Sorry that it's been a while since I updated this one. But thank you all who are still reading and reviewing! I owe responses to those reviews. Those are forthcoming. Special shout outs to **Malicean, Shadir, Hoplite39**, and **Admiral Mitth'raw'nuruodo.** You all are the best! :D

Another special shout out to Admiral Mitth'raw'nuruodo for the mention of the OC Mar Blice and Station Alpha from the story **"The Unknown Regions."** Worth the read and one of my favorites. You'll love it.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OCs. Please do not sue. This is purely for fun.

* * *

It wasn't so much of a farm any more than it was a weathered, half-buried set of ruins. Avery Gant stood on what should have been the first of many stairs leading down into the subterranean dwelling place that had been the Lars farmstead. There was nothing left now, barely a series of honeycomb-like passages carved into the bedrock of the planet. That, and the carbon scoring of heavy blaster fire indelibly imprinted into the sun bleached stone, scarcely faded by time and scouring sandstorms.

Whomever had been ordered to take this place apart had done a very efficient job of it, judging by that scoring. It had to have been a squadron of the 501st legion, or a few officers that were about to be cherry-picked for the unit. That kind of accuracy didn't belong to a fresh-faced recruit lacking the seniority to draw a better assignment for his first tour than a backwater desert world. These were well placed and precise shots, with weapons no larger than an E-11 he surmised, that would have turned the home into a raging fireball long before the blaster barrels had begun to cool.

His first instinct was to pray that everyone was removed from the house before it was burned. The tales he'd picked up about town said otherwise.

Local legend whispered that the place was cursed, haunted by the ghosts of Owen and Beru Lars. Haunted also by the shade of a woman some said had given birth to a child without a father, a former slave turned wife to Owen's father, Cliegg Lars. His eyes unconsciously slid to his right, noting the uneven and oddly shaped piles of sand not more than a meter or two wide. Glass lay beneath that dusty covering, sand melted from the heat of fire until it liquefied, congealing later into the brittle crystalline substance. The legends stated that the glass marked the final resting place of Owen and his wife.

Legend also stated that the Lars' weren't in the house when it went up. No, they were on their knees in that disturbing spot where the sand wouldn't quite lay right. Kneeling there before their home when they were lit alive with plasma. Or so the stories went. Though if the 501st—if indeed any Imperial officer had been involved in this—he had to wonder just who spread that story and for what reasons.

The officers of the Imperial Army were not known for leaving witnesses unless ordered to do so.

His eyes tracked back to the remains of the family hovel, an uncomfortable feeling trickling between his shoulderblades. The legends didn't call it plasma. But it was only logical to assume that plasma was used on the couple. It was the only thing hot enough to leave that large a scorch pattern in the sand. It was also the only thing that would keep burning long after the bodies had charred to sticks. A horrible, gruesome and slow death reserved only for the most loathsome of enemies to the Empire.

What had they known, this elderly farming couple. What had they found that had earned such animosity from the Empire's Elite?

A shadow moved in the pit below him, a wave of tan and white against the sea of sand colored dark crimson under the dual setting suns, drawing his eye back to what served as a foyer for these kinds of dwellings. Nathon Tydon emerged from one of the passages, tugging at the white-tan strip of cloth that protected his face from sun and sand.

"Anything?" he called down to the other man, watching him ascend the crumbling stairs.

"Nothing," Nathon shook his head. "This place has been picked clean of anything useful long before we showed up."

"Tuskens, most likely. The locals won't come near this place."

"Superstitions run rampant in less educated societies, Avery. All it takes is one prank by a kid or a drunk mistaking a mirage and a legend is born."

"At least it works in our advantage this time. The isolation has preserved the scene somewhat."

"Has it?" Nathon countered, taking that last step to join him at the top.

Avery grimaced. "Okay, I'll concede that it isn't much. At least the foundations are still intact. Look at this," he knelt down, brushing away some of the sand at the base of the step. "Here, the remnants of blaster fire were preserved. I've found pockets like this all around where the structure was originally built."

Nathon knelt, examined the markings, and whistled low between his teeth. "E-11's you think?"

"Absolutely. Anything about the spray pattern of fire grab your attention?"

Nathon did his own sweeping of the sand, looking at the same sections and then going farther to look in areas that Avery hadn't. "You're thinking someone elite did this, or at least ordered it," he said at length, sitting back on his haunches.

"Yes, I do. I take it you don't?"

"I didn't say that," Nathon replied. "This smacks of something more than a local unit, of that I'll agree. I'm not so certain I'm ready to jump to higher conclusions yet."

"May I ask why?"

Nathon rose to his feet, dusting off his hands as he went. "Because assuming that an elite unit did this or at the very least supervised it, means we're trespassing into dangerous territory. Nothing regarding this homestead was issued into any of the order logs we reviewed, yet we're staring at evidence of obvious Imperial activity. Add that to the fact that the place was picked clean most likely before it was set ablaze means sweepers were part of that unit. These people, whomever they were, did more than upset a local commander. More than pay lip service to the rebellion. Digging for answers here is going to set off a lot of red flags with people I don't want tampering with my career. You understand now?"

Avery swallowed, the implications of that sinking in. All he had to do was think about that lake house on Naboo, and how reporting that sketch of it on a whim had caused the transfer of his team to understand. Lives and careers were altered on those whims, on following the ingrained notion report any findings. What they found at this former farmstead could be as innocent as that drawing, and cost them more than their careers. From the grim look in Nathon's eyes, he could tell similar thoughts ran through his head.

"Understood, sir," Avery said on reflex. "I didn't think that far head."

"Start doing it. You're a commander now, Avery. While you're beyond good at putting together pieces of the puzzle as they come to you, you need to look further ahead at the end goal. Let that serve as the framework for your actions. And call me Nathon. We aren't in uniform."

"Yes, s—Nathon," Avery caught himself, trying to shake off the sudden cold around his heart that appeared every time he thought of that. "Anything else you want to check over while we're here?"

Nathon glanced around, shaking his head. "No. I think we've found enough. You?"

His eyes slid unconsciously to the stomach-turning patch of sand. "Yes, actually. In light of trying to think on the end goal, I want to check on a theory."

The other man's eyes tracked to that same patch of sand. "The legends?"

"Something like that. There's always some truth in every story. Something has kept this place from being sold or claimed. Something more than half-cooked ghost stories."

Nathon glanced at the sky, tracking the movement of Tantooine's dual suns across the horizon. "Might as well. It's dangerous to travel at night with those Tusken animals about. I found a room down there that is easily defendable and will shield our heat signatures. It can serve as a camp tonight. Tomorrow at first light, we head towards the Kenobi farm."

* * *

Friel braced himself, both physically and mentally, before ordering the cell door to rise. Behind him one of his stormtrooper escorts immediately moved forward, his weapon handed off to his counterpart. He watched as the first trooper moved the droid to a far corner, pressing the sequence into its terminal to deactivate it. Without a sound, the thing lowered itself to the floor, the lights winking out one at a time.

Again, he stood silent vigil as that same trooper crossed over to the woman, or Prisoner Ten as she had been renamed. She was a crumpled mess on the floor of the cell, her backside to him. Short black hair, almost too short for his tastes, was matted with sweat and days without proper cleansing. Long, toned legs and arms, sporting a faded scar here or there, curled in on herself as the pain was slowing receding. The trooper reached down, gripping her face and turning it to the side before nodding, giving Friel a view of a strong and fine-boned profile.

"She's alive and aware, sir," the trooper confirmed.

"Good," Friel said, pumping a crisp brittleness into his tone. Hiding the tiny smidge of compassion he felt. It was hard not to, not after witnessing Kittinger's plans for the woman. "Get her up and onto that bench."

The trooper complied, gripping her arms not too unkindly and hoisting her to her feet. He half carried-half dragged her to the bench, pushing her upright with one hand on her shoulder. Her head listed, rolled as if her neck were made of rubber. Friel let the frown touch his mouth. If this was what stood for 'aware and alive' under Kittinger's direction, he hated to see what classified as barely conscious.

And speaking of that stain to Imperial honor, he glanced in the direction of the hidden camera. Smiled a death's head smile, and made a show of fishing a coppery colored code cylinder out of his tunic pocket. With that same smile, he pressed down on the top of the cylinder, activating the homemade jamming device. All around him, cameras made a harsh electronic scream as their circuits fried. Ensuring the ones he knew about where silenced, and the ones he didn't know about were likewise inoperable.

The smile became wolfish by degrees. Let Kittinger stew on the lack of information for now. Let the man wonder just what his XO was doing. And just as a little extra kick in the pants, Friel made a mental note to transfer these two troopers far, far away from the brig. It wasn't a large leap of logic to conclude that someone like Kittinger would drug and interrogate his own people if it got him something he wanted.

Nathon and Avery couldn't get back to the Empire fast enough.

"I am Commander Friel," he began, slipping the code cylinder back into his pocket. "First officer on the Imperial Star Destroyer _Peremptory_. Do you understand what I am saying?"

The trooper holding her against the wall grabbed her jaw, forcing her head upright and her eyes to meet Friel's. "Y-yes," her lips formed the word.

"Good," Friel said again, folding his arms behind his back. "It is my understanding that you are a confessed rebel agent, Prisoner Ten. Is that also correct?"

"Yes," came the muffled reply, the hand on her jaw allowing little movement.

"What were you and your team doing in this part of the galaxy?"

She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, tears leaking past those trembling lids. "I… Prisoner Ten informed Master Kitt—"

Friel's eyes about climbed into his hairline. "Master?"

"Yes. Prisoner Ten told Master Kittinger everything already."

The gall of the man. The sheer gall and arrogance. He felt his hands ball into fists behind his back, uselessly. Under the new regulations from on high, all rebels lost their citizenship. Rendering them outside the laws that protected them from things like slavery. It wasn't such a loss to the aliens in the galaxy, as one wrong word these days could see a collar slapped around a non-human neck before said alien could draw the breath to protest. But for humans like this woman?

It was, Friel had to admit, a good scare tactic. Make the prisoner believe something worse than death waited for them. Certainly no law stood between them and the auction block now. But a scare tactic was only that—a scare tactic. He knew deep in his gut that Kittinger wasn't using this tactic as a threat. He was using it as a promise. Creating slaves of prisoners while command and all others turned a blind eye.

The thought of Renet wearing a shock-collar, stripped naked and hauled onto the auction block with no laws to protect her… Tiny half-moons cut into his palm where his fingernails bit into his skin. Like bloody hell that would happen.

"Then you'll have no problem telling everything to me. Out with it, Prisoner Ten, tell me every detail," he said, closing the distance between them until he was standing over her. "Leave nothing out, or I'll return you to your so-called Master."

The woman tried to nod.

"Sergeant, let her go if you would be so kind."

She slid down the wall bonelessly, catching herself on the lip of the shelf before she landed at his feet. Muscles trembled in that toned back, arms bracing as she lifted her tortured flesh into a sitting position once again. This time in the corner. He didn't wait for an invitation to join her, taking a seat next to her with his hands on his thighs. Waiting.

"What is your name, prisoner?"

"This one is Prisoner Ten."

He snorted. There had been something in her posture as she'd drug herself to a sitting position, something in her that wasn't quite as broken as she appeared. Something that had prevented her from falling at his feet like a helpless infant.

"If I wanted a recitation of what's been spoon-fed to you, woman, I could ask Lieutenant Kittinger. One more time I'll ask you that question. Otherwise—"

"Farrah," she cut in, opening her eyes. "Farrah Rendyn."

He was hit with the most amazing grey eyes he'd ever seen. Like steel disks burnished to a shine. A warrior's eyes. Maybe there was something to Kittinger's misogynistic assumption that she was a wash-out from the Imperial Academy. The muscles of her tall, toned form definitely suggested a martial background of some kind.

"Where are you from, Miss Rendyn?"

"Originally from the planet Copperline, Commander."

Ah, that made sense. The Copperline star system was known throughout the galaxy as a "corporate system." Not because of its economic wealth or prosperity, but for its lackthereof. Its planets were owned by various corporations, its populations no better than indentured servants forced to work the land for whatever that corporation denied to pay. Many were poor, on the brink of starvation. The planet Copperline Proper was nothing more than a planet-sized mine.

Which explained her physical condition. Which also, unfortunately for her, lead credence to the notion that she was indeed tied in with Craken's team. Kittinger was an idiot to miss the connection, an arrogant overconfident utter moron.

Friel leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest as he'd observed Gant do time and again. Even crossing his feet at the ankles. He was mildly surprised at the effect it had on the woman. Wariness replaced weariness in her, sharpened those warrior-like eyes through the pain. She was uncertain, he realized, her mind now racing in a million directions to figure out just what game he was playing. He made a mental note to spend more time with Gant when he returned. Maybe there was something to his unorthodox techniques.

Certainly appearing as a simple man wanting only answers had its uses, especially after all that Farrah had endured already.

He pressed the advantage.

"It makes sense that he would send you here," Friel hedged.

"Who? Send me? I don't…"

He leaned forward, arms still folded across his chest, and whispered a single name. "Cracken."

She recoiled from it before she could stop herself. A tiny slip of a reaction, but it was enough. The look in her eyes said it all. Inwardly, he shook his head, more pieces starting to fall into place. The woman wasn't an idiot. Far from it, she was perhaps too smart for her own good. She'd figured out Kittinger's game from the moment the man had walked through that door and played him with it. Led him around by the nose until he believed she was just the decoy for the real rebel leader of this team.

Ready to let him break her mind with drugs until all the information she possessed was lost. Dying the death of personality instead of the physical death. Ensuring all the Rebellion's plans for this area were destroyed with her very mind.

He found himself respecting that, oddly enough.

He leaned back again with a shrug. "Honestly, Miss Rendyn, I'm not here about your leader. What you know about Cracken and his activities does not matter to me. What does matter is what will happen to this ship and its crew in this system. I need to know why you are here and what you were planning to do when you received those Merr-son weapons. Start with that, if you please."

"I don't know—"

"Yes, you do," He shrugged elegantly, something else he'd seen Gant do. It worked. She flinched worse than if he'd threatened or struck her. "I know you do. I know for a fact that you are in charge of this operation. And I'm not leaving until you tell me."

To prove that point, he adjusted his shoulders, settling in further onto the uncomfortable shelf.

And stared straight ahead.

And said nothing.

Letting the silence do his work for him, as Gant had done before. It didn't take long, no more than twenty minutes of his presence there close enough to touch her, of the two stormtroopers flanking the door, taking up most of the space in the cell. And, of course, the presence of the deactivated interrogation droid sitting there on the floor of that last bit of space. Hemming her in. Making the room feel smaller and smaller with each passing minute.

Gant was a kriffing genius.

It started with a deep breath, which became a sigh. And then she was swiping angrily at her face with hands that trembled and jerked. Not from emotion so much as from the permanent electrical damage settling into her muscles. Without proper medical care those muscles were going to calcify, ruining her coordination until she developed a perpetual shake to her hands, until her legs would randomly spasm as muscles tried to function and failed. As if the electrical torture was trapped forever inside her limbs, running without a place to ever escape.

"How did you know?" she whispered hoarsely. "How in the kriffing stars did you figure it all out?"

He shrugged again. "It's my job to put things together. First was the stolen Merr-son weapons, which were connected to Cracken's past activities against that company. Then a team out here in Poln to intercept them. What connected all the coordinates for me was you, or more to the point that you are from Copperline. Who else would Cracken send to a hollowed out former mining system than someone who'd grown up around that type of work? I'm willing to bet that you know the ins and outs of spelunking and safe travel through abandoned mine shafts."

She closed those eyes, nodding to everything. He smiled, a sardonic smile. "Tell me why you are here, and what you needed with those weapons."

"A base," she said on another sigh. "The rebellion is running out of places to hide. We—"

"And now you seem to think I'm an idiot, too," He said, throwing a snap of indignant command into his tone. She jumped again, eyes widening and locking onto his. Onto the cold expression on his face. "That isn't the reason you are here. You weren't scouting for a base, nor setting up preliminary access to a future base. You'd need more than a small shipment of Merr-son weapons to carry that out."

On impulse he snagged her chin in a strong grip and yanked forward. She tumbled from the bench, an uncoordinated tangle of limbs that he was willing to bet used to move with a warrior's grace. But he didn't let go of her chin, forcing her to kneel in front of him with her eyes locked on his.

"I don't have much time, Miss Rendyr," he continued with that same frosty tone. "I have many more important tasks than listening to an intelligent and lovely woman try to play me like a fool. Tell me about the station. Do it _now_."

Again the wide eyes followed by the flinch.

"Yes, I know about the station," he continued, leaning in until his face was inches from hers. "One of your other compatriots let that slip. You can tell me here and now about that station, and I'll give you that execution you seem to want so badly. I'll put the barrel of that blaster to your head and pull the trigger myself. Painless and quick. That's what I'll offer you, since the notion of redemption seems so foreign to you rebels as to be an alien concept. Tell me about the station, Ferrah, or I tell Kittinger everything you told me and he'll peel away your sanity thin layer by thin layer. By the time he's through, you'll be a willing joygirl wearing his slave collar."

And then he did the one thing he never thought he could, the one thing he knew Gant would use as a last resort. The one thing that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

He leaned in as if he was going to kiss her, watched her eyes widen and her hands ball into fists, ready to strike him. Assuming the troopers would burn her down for such an action and then all her secrets would follow her to the grave. He bypassed her generous mouth, instead pressing his lips to her ear.

"You are Farrah Rendyr of Copperline. I restore your name to you, Prisoner Ten. Do you want to know why?" He whispered, feeling her go deathly still. "It's simple, really. Just how long do you think it would take me to locate your family with that information? And just what do you think I would do with it? With them? With everyone you ever knew or loved or happened to say hello to when you passed them on the street."

It worked. Burn him, but it worked. After the atrocities she'd suffered at Kittinger's hands, after all the promises that bastard had made to her that had already come true, she had no choice but to believe he'd be that dishonorable, that monstrous.

Still, she surprised him again.

"Your word," she stuttered out. "Your word that your retribution starts and stops with me. That the Empire's vendetta against me starts and stops here… please."

"Done and done," He said, letting go of her and leaning back again. Going so far as to pat the bench next to him once. "Provided you are not lying to me, Miss Rendyr."

This time her climb back onto the shelf was a broken thing, a slow and painful motion that had nothing to do with her ruined muscles and everything to do with the weight of her own betrayal. She sat next to him, and closed her eyes.

"There's a station on the edge of the Unknown Regions," she began softly, simply. No tears. No hesitation. Just the resignation of her fate. "It was once an Imperial Science station, though the research conducted there is no longer funded. It never had a name that we could identify. It was only called 'Station Alpha.' It's… it's currently manned by a researcher named Mar Blice. The only thing we know about him is that his dissatisfaction with his position is extremely high. He… he said he had something valuable, something that could turn the tide of the war, but he needed help to get it safely off the station."

"And that's where you and the Merr-son weapons come in." It wasn't a question.

She nodded. "Yes. He wanted those specific weapons, modified by Cracken in some way. I don't know the specifics of it. As you said, I'm a miner, not an engineer or scientist. All I knew was those weapons were modified for something, that the parts in them were necessary for Blice to do… whatever it was he needed to do to get that valuable item off the station."

She took a deep breath and continued. "I was to pick up the weapons here in the Poln system and rendezvous with one of Blice's men on Poln Major."

"How long until the rendezvous?"

"I… I don't know. I mean, I have no idea what the current date is."

"It's been two weeks since your capture, if that helps."

She cursed under her breath, a particularly inventive string of words that had him raising his eyebrows and chuckling slightly. He'd have to remember that one for the next time he lost at the sabbac table.

"Then we have little under four days to make the rendezvous," she finished at last. "I swear to you on all that I love, that's all I know."

He lifted a hand and a stormtrooper came forward, holding out a data pad. Friel took it and held it up to her. "I need all the information—every detail, Miss Rendyr—on your rendezvous."

When it was all imputed, when he'd reviewed it and climbed to his feet, she followed him. Standing on legs that could barely support her. "I'm ready."

He shook his head. "I'm afraid your execution is dependent on the verification of this information. Until then, you are my guest onboard the _Peremptory_."

"Guest?" she echoed, a touch of the fire coming back to her eyes. "But our deal…"

"Is still very much in place," He replied easily. "Sergeant, escort Miss Rendyr to medical. She's to be placed under heavy guard for every moment of her stay with us. After she's treated, have a proper meal, clothing, and a bedroll brought into this cell."

She shook her head back and forth quickly as if in denial, lost her balance on her shaky legs, and fell to the floor. "No. No, I don't want your gifts, your… your _rewards_ like I was some kind of pet that performed well. I'm a member of the Alliance to Restore the Galatic—"

"I would seriously rethink that statement," Friel said, striding towards the door. "You have just committed an act of treason against your so-called 'Alliance.' While you may yet be executed per our arrangement, and your family spared retribution, you will die as a citizen of the Empire and a traitor to your rebellion. Whether you choose to believe it or not, you've already accepted my invitation to redemption. Welcome back to the Empire, Citizen Farrah Rendyr."

It took everything in him not to flinch when the strangled cry rose from behind him, cut off so abruptly as the cell door closed. So much like when he'd abandoned Renet to her own personal demons. But the look on Kittinger's face as he and the troopers walked back into the monitoring area, the stunned and amazed expression, was worth the effort.

"That is how things are done on the _Peremptory_, Lieutenant Commander Kittinger," he growled darkly, his voice low so not as to carry too far. Let those nearest the man overhear the rebuke, but Friel wasn't the type to dress down a man before his own team, not unless he was replacing the man with someone else immediately. "We do things promptly and efficiently. She's given me everything I need to know in little under an hour. Keep that in mind next time you send a machine to do a man's job."

He turned on his heel, waiting for the stormtrooper to give orders for Rendyr's transport to medical. And when the doors to the turbolift closed, taking him and the two trooper transfers from the detention block, he permitted himself a smile. The first real smile he'd experienced since Renet was captured by his own ship.

For the first time, he felt like he'd done _something_ to help her.

* * *

Full dark had set in before Gant had completed his scans of the glass-like material, the stars filled with the kind of twinkling brightness that only came from viewing them planet-side. In space, in the true blackness those jewel-like balls of hydrogen and helium were static, unchanging. Like white dots scattered randomly on black paper. It took a real planet with a swirling atmosphere to give the sky that slightly blue tint to all that black, the eddies in its exosphere giving the shimmering quality that turned the white into glittering gems.

He'd taken a moment to reflect on that, chewing quickly at a ration bar before wrapping his face again. In the day the wraps had kept dust and sand from his nose and mouth. At night? It acted like insulation, keeping warmth trapped to the body. It was a cruel trick of fate that a desert could be boiling in the daytime and below zero in the night. But it was a reality he had to deal with, and any use of a portable heater out in the open would have been suicidal.

That kind of light and heat would attract all manner of nocturnal hunters, the least of which were the Tusken Raiders. There was a reason the settlers of Tantooine powered down their generators as the twin suns set over the horizon.

Beside him the data pad beeped, letting him know that the final bits of scanned data had finished downloading. It had taken forever, removing the sand in thin layers so that nothing could be missed. There was a reason the Rebellion wanted this place undisturbed at its base layers, and he was fairly certain that they had been the one to start the haunting rumors. All he needed was the time to figure out why.

Avery made a face as he swallowed a mouthful of the local water, the mineral taste less than pleasant. He rose to his feet, carefully removing any trace of his make-shift dinner site, before pressing the button on the tent pole. He'd taken the thing apart, reprogrammed the set-up configuration to hold the sand a bay like an upside down umbrella rather than unfold as the appropriate shelter. And with a touch of the switch, the inverted plasticanvas walls went semi-liquid, slithering back into its deployment tube. The sand fell over the graves of Owen and Beru Lars one more time, settling back into its uneven, slightly obscene pattern.

With any luck, no one would ever know he'd disturbed it.

Tydon was sitting on his bedroll, leaning back against the crumbling walls when Gant entered their camp. As near as he could tell, this tunnel-like cavern had to have been a communal room. Like a dining hall or something. They'd found evidence of destroyed electrical conduit in the walls, and something that may have been a Czerka Corp. liquid purifier unit wedged into a crack in the foundation. Probably used to distill the blue milk these locals apparently loved.

"You finish?" Nathon asked, not bothering to look up from the data pad he was studying.

"For the most part," Avery grunted, peeling off his heavy coat. At least they could use a heating unit beneath the ground. The sand above retained enough heat throughout the night and they were far enough underground to disguise that signature. "Now we let the computer process the scans. Shouldn't be more than a few minutes."

Nathon grunted a non-committal sound.

Avery pursed his lips. "You still think this is a waste of time."

The other man looked up, eyes flat. "Yes."

He sank down on his own bedroll, tossing his pad down beside him. "Well on that we'll have to disagree."

Nathon looked back at his pad. "Twelve hours. That's how long you have left before we head for Naboo. Whether or not your curiosity is sated."

"You really don't care who it was that killed these people, do you?"

"Of course I do," Nathon countered. "They were good Imperial citizens from all accounts. But their killers aren't who I'm after at the moment. You'll forgive me if I'd rather see my sister alive instead of added to the kill count."

Avery raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'm on your side, remember? I'd just rather not reach Naboo and realize we missed something on Tatooine. I don't have to remind you that the clock is ticking for both of us. You're leave will expire soon and so will my suspension."

"Which is why I'm in a rather unkind mood. I want answers, not more questions."

"Sometimes it's the questions that are the answers in themselves."

"Kriff," Nathon swore, rubbing at his face with both hands. "If you ever become an XO, your Captain is going to loathe you, Gant. Cryptic answers have no place on a Star Destroyer's bridge. Captain Ronoe would have your ass for that kind of talk."

"So would Captain Kand," Avery grinned slightly. "No, I'm afraid my future career path will never see true command of a warship."

"You don't sound too upset about that."

He shrugged. "The more I'm observing and learning on this mission, the more I think I made a mistake in accepting that promotion. What this is boiling down to is a shift in priorities in the upper levels of the Empire that I'm not comfortable with. Take for instance what happened to this farm family here. Everything we found points to the fact that they purchased a set of droids that everyone and their cousin was hot to find, including our side. I'm not certain if it was our people that killed them, or if it was a professional merc at this point. I'd like to think our soldiers have more honor than to use an entire squad to murder an elderly couple."

"I'd like to also think that a terrorist in the form of a twenty-year-old farmboy named Skywalker didn't grow up in the very place we're sitting," Nathon countered. "But he did, and he went on to destroy the Death Star and kill millions in the name of his rebellion. The point is we don't know for certain what happened here. And it's likely that we never will. Too much time has passed, too many people trampling over or outright stealing the evidence."

There wasn't much that Avery could say to that. Still, he shrugged. "We're here. We owe it to them to find answers. Just like you owed it to the local garrison to turn in that list of names that Tor'pag gave us."

Nathon folded his arms over his chest. "The list wasn't nearly as extensive as I hoped. But it did give us something, other than the feeling of a job well done when those arrests happened."

Avery perked up at that. "What did you find?"

"While you were making sand castles out there, I cross referenced some of those names with known aliases and departure plans around the time Renet was here. Seems she wasn't the only one that stayed behind when her tour moved on from Tatooine."

He tossed the pad he'd been fiddling with to Avery, who caught it in one hand. "Vera Nabierre," he read aloud. "Who left the planet to head to Naboo fourteen days later with a Varrick Dolson. Claiming she fell ill on Tatooine and had to book passage to Naboo on her own. How much you want to bet that Varrick Dolson is Vrad Dodonna?"

Nathon smiled grimly. "My thoughts exactly."

He glanced back down. "There isn't much to go on other than that," he muttered as if to himself. "Both names vanish after that entry. I don't think they're still on Naboo. It wouldn't make much sense."

"Nothing about this trip has made sense. At least it's a place to start once we get there."

"There is that," he agreed. "You run an in-depth check on Nabierre's known associates and family?"

"The computer's churning on that right now. Turns out the girl didn't lie about her family connections. So far she's related to a Padme Nabierre, who was a handmaiden to former Queen and ex-Senator Padme Amidala."

"We may need to pay the ex-senator a visit, then."

"That would be difficult, considering she died the same day the Empire was established. I have a feed of her funeral procession. Apparently she was beloved by everyone, so much so that the Emperor had her body sealed in marble in her own mausoleum."

Avery whistled between his teeth. "I don't suppose just anyone could walk up to the thing, could they."

"Not unless you have the current Queen's permission. It's a cultural landmark now."

"Still, we may—" He cut off as his data pad beeped. "The scans are finished. The images are forthcoming."

Avery tapped his data pad to Nathon's, pressed a few buttons, and tossed it back to him. The download continued simultaneously on both devices, relaying the grim images layer by layer of a human male and female in the throes of agony. It was often said that the history of a place was written in its sands, and that was never more accurate than for the Lars farmstead. The scorched sands, buried deep beneath blankets of wind-tossed virgin grains, relayed the flailing, the attempt of the male to put out the flames of the female while he, himself, burned. Both failing and falling to their final resting places.

He felt sick as he watched, relieved to see that Nathon wasn't fairing much better. Until blessedly the images came to an end. No one said anything for a long moment or five.

"She's pointing at something," Nathon said, the first to break the silence. "Look here. See her hand? Before her muscles tightened and exploded in the flames, she was clearly pointing somewhere or at something."

This time they didn't have to exchange glances or debate it. Coats and wraps and gloves slid on, shovels and the meager brushes and whatnot that Avery had managed to collect filled their pockets. They fanned out in the direction that the corpse of Beru Lars had indicated, finding almost immediately another gravesite. This one containing a single body of a female and a marker that was buried down with her.

A single name was on it.

Shmi Skywalker Lars.

And clutched in a skeletal hand was the single most important clue to the whole mystery. One that answered so little, and asked so much in return.


End file.
